I have a secret pleasure.

I like to pretend that I'm God, or Moses, or someone else with great power.

Whenever I enter a store with automatic sliding doors, I raise my arms calling upon some telekinetic resources to make the doors open, even though I know (and everyone else watching me knows) that it's really only a motion sensor. And then I stride through the open doors very purposefully and magestically. It's just fun to imagine myself parting the Red Sea, even at Target.

I've recently found a new way to exercise this power. The women's bathroom on the fourth floor of the Dick Building (yes, that is its real name) has automatic lights. Only, they don't come on as soon as the door opens. You have to actually step in a few steps first. So sometimes it can be really scary, and it feels like the door is gonna close and you're gonna be stuck there in the dark, with nothing but a cold bathroom stall to comfort you.

This is when I say to myself, "Self, let us step forward in faith that, yes, the lights WILL turn on again, just like they did last time." And then I say (very quietly, so nobody out in the hall thinks I'm crazy) "Let there be light." And they turn on. And each time my heart feels a very tiny giggle inside, like I've done something truly amazing.

But when you think about it, it's not any more amazing than actually turning on a light switch. With both, we condition ourselves to have faith that electricity will obey our command, just like it's done a thousand times before.

This day, October 2, saw my hair turn from blonde to brownish-red (or reddish-brown . . . I'm not sure). How lame is it to blog about my hair color, and the identity crisis into which the change plunges me? Pretty.

I've always been blonde. Even when I wasn't blonde anymore, I was blonde (you natural towheads know what I'm talking about . . . a little Sun-In, and nobody knows the difference). The only time I've dyed my hair different colors has been for plays. Once a brassy orange-red, once green (accident), then dark brown, then cherry-cola red to cover up the remnants of the green, which was as permanent as hair dye can be (stay away from henna).

But in my heart, always blonde. Until I saw Orenda Fink, and then I was like, "Oooh, I could do dark!" So today I paid a professional to dye my hair a rich, warm brown (which right now is a dark red, but will soon fade to said rich, warm brown).

Here's my tiny little dilemma, my pathetic, sad, and petty worry: boys will not notice me if I don't have blonde hair.

First of all, let's deal with the real issue here. Why do I want boys to notice me? Well, I should think that would be obvious. Everyone likes positive attention. But really . . . I don't need the attention of males to feel good about myself. Or at least I shouldn't. I'm practicing intentional singleness for the next indetermined while, and whether or not boys notice me should be the last thing on my mind (but honestly, it isn't).

Secondly, what a lie! Guys don't only like blondes! Some guys actually prefer brunettes! I think I've somehow been enculturated into the myth that "blondes have more fun" or that "most men prefer blondes" or whatever other tripe surrounded Marilyn Monroe and her ilk. But even though I'm cognitively aware that it's false, somewhere in my heart or my gut or just beneath my sternum, I really feel less noticeable when I'm not a bright and shiny blonde. Ha! Balderdash!

I blame Korea (that's usually best--find a nation of millions of people and blame your personal problems on them as a whole). I knew that I was noticeable there, among crowds of people with black or dark brown hair. In Korea, EVERYONE told me how pretty I was and how much they loved my "yellow" or "gold" hair. It was flattering, and maybe I started to see myself the way they saw me--even though they would have thought Condi Rice was attractive if she had blue eyes and blonde hair

Not that it's a bad thing. My self-image has been really great since my time there--whether that's the effect of maturity or of a solid year hearing nothing but how much like a Disney princess you look (hey, I worked with pre-schoolers, okay?). The only question is, now that I'm not Cinderella or Briar Rose . . . who am I?