Blonde Jokes

For most of my life, I have been discontent with the color of my hair…yet I have also been adamant that I would not color it something different. I don’t really know why. Perhaps because whenever I got my hair cut, the stylist (and every other person in the salon) would ask if my hair was colored and gawk that it wasn’t and then tell me how THANKFUL I must be and how JEALOUS they all were and how people pay the big bucks to get true “strawberry-blonde” hair.

All my siblings are blonde, and I always wished I could also have beautiful blonde hair. But over the years, God has sanctified me and helped me be thankful for His good gift to me (however trivial such a thing is).

And yet…though I am the only red-head in my family, I still got included in the plethora of blonde jokes that were often told in our home. And people told me that I was “a closet blonde” or was “blonde at the roots.”

Whatever the case, something happened the other day that brought all this to mind, and I’m not too proud to make a joke out of it.

Q: How long does it take for a blonde to cook oatmeal in Africa? 

A: 15 minutes. 2 minutes to get the oatmeal, water, and salt in the pan and pick out the husks. 8 minutes to stir the oatmeal. 1 minute to wonder why it’s not cooking. 1 minute to realize either the oven is switched “off” or the wrong burner is on. 3 minutes to actually cook the oatmeal.

I’m not kidding you, this happens EVERY time I cook oatmeal. Something’s up. Either it’s because I haven’t had my coffee yet. Or I just can’t cope under the pressures of life here. Or my Swedish roots are revolting living in Africa. Or…I really do have blonde roots.