Over the course of a lifetime of studying peoples’ interactions with me I had figured out when and how to play my blonde card. But that was in the West. When I moved to Abu Dhabi six months ago the game changed dramatically. Today, I’m still adjusting to the fixation people, specifically men, in this corner of the Earth have with my hair.

Anywhere in the world, being born blonde comes with a whole set of assumptions people have about you that are not necessarily easy to deal with. Blondes have more fun, for example. Well, sure we do – to a point. After all, the extra attention is nice and we do tend to tan well; that caramel-hued skin contrasting with those free-flowing golden locks adds to our apparent appeal. But there’s also the assumption that we are airheads and the notion we are up for anything – especially sexually. Always.

Because I knew that natural blondes are not a common sight in the Middle East, I wondered how people would react to me, and before moving here I seriously considered dyeing my hair at least five shades darker. But whenever I discussed the subject with friends and family they told me I would probably have to wear a headscarf in public anyway and so my hair color shouldn’t matter. So instead of making an appointment at the salon I started tying pieces of fabric around my head and experimenting with different styles of coverings. To be honest, I was excited by the prospect of adding to my wardrobe. After dozens of misfits, I managed to create at least seven combinations that seemed to express my personality. Modest, yet urban. Modern, but with a nod to the past.

And then one night there I was, walking past immigration at the Abu Dhabi airport with a couple of suitcases in my hands and a headscarf ready for action. But much to my surprise I soon found out that this accessory is not a requirement or even the norm. Western women who are not Muslim almost never wear headscarves in the United Arab Emirates, I discovered. Neither do many Muslim women. So there would be no need for me to cover my hair, I said to myself with some relief and a bit of disappointment. Or would there?

On the fifth day of extreme heat and sweating in this desert clime, I hopped into a taxi on the way to my new job. We rode along for some time before I realized the cab driver was staring at me. At first, I tried to not notice and instead peered out the window, searching for landmarks in this city that was entirely new to me. But I felt the eyes visible in the rear view mirror intensify. Though experience had taught me to try to ignore this I could not seem to relieve myself from their piercing glare.

The driver was a big man with a small white cap, a long white dress and a beard that resembled those of the mullahs I had seen in photographs. He would lose interest, I told myself. But at some point enough was enough. I reached my boiling point and began to stare back. What? I asked him with eyebrows arched in annoyance and what I thought was equal rudeness. His eyes slipped from the mirror for perhaps a second and then returned to their discomforting gaze. They seemed glued to my hair.

I inched toward the door in another attempt to escape his intimidating gawk. Then I suddenly realized he only had one hand on the steering wheel… No, there’s no way! I thought. The peak I snuck between the seats confirmed my suspicion. Yes, this man was pleasuring himself while focusing on me. Or my hair. I wasn’t entirely sure which.

Stupefied, I couldn’t move or think. I had no idea where I was and somehow I foolishly figured this man was the only one who could deliver me to my workplace. When we pulled up to my destination I threw some change into the backseat and slammed the door behind me, angry, alarmed and aware that for this new world I had landed in I was quite unprepared.

That was six months ago. Although it wouldn’t be the last time I was the involuntary subject of someone’s masturbatory fantasy, it would be the last time I froze. The next time it happened I pulled out my phone and threatened to call the police and demand that the perpetrator be deported – a very real and scary threat for many people in this country whose population is mostly migrant workers from poorer places. Also, I taught myself enough Arabic and Urdu – which is just as common a language to hear on the streets here – to verbally shame someone. “What would your mother think?” I could now shout in multiple tongues.

But so too did I learn over time, however, that being a blonde woman in the Middle East is not only to live with the reality that at times I may be objectified as a freak show in whose presence all things are permitted — it also comes with certain perks. Whereas in the West my “please help me, I know nothing” blonde trick works only on occasion and only after I have carefully judged the situation and happen to be the recipient of a random stroke of luck, here it rarely fails.

Sure, while there have been men who won’t deign to talk to me because they think, perhaps, that because of my appearance I must be a prostitute, just as commonly Middle Eastern men have been knightly toward me. They are quick with their lighters when I reach for a smoke. They take a gentlemanly step back when I need to pass. And, for good or for bad, when I am cycling on the chaotic city streets drivers grind their brakes to a screeching halt when they lay eyes on something they’ve never before seen: a blonde babe on a bicycle.

I must confess that at times I take advantage of the bewilderment I have grown accustomed to. When I cannot find a parking spot, for example, I might put on a confused face, step out of the car, look around and sigh visibly in an attempt to enlarge the question mark hovering over me and add to the image of a damsel in distress. Works like a charm.

Some guy will inevitably rush up and ask if he can park my car for me. “Really?” I’ll ask in a voice sweet as honey. “Are you sure?” When he returns twenty minutes later with my car keys, I’ll thank him, smile and perhaps offer a tip, which, depending on the guy, he will usually turn down.

And, no, I never give my phone number when they ask (standard practice under these circumstances). So many of the men who I must exchange phone numbers with for legitimate business purposes already take the liberty of ringing me at their leisure a half a dozen times a week that I hardly need another one who thinks my number is a 24-hour fantasy hotline.

But so too has my adjustment to this new standing been marked with consequences. In the West I am naturally bubbly, social and even flirtatious — not so much a come-on as a general temperament. It is my personality: who I am. But here, I’ve learned, this attitude can seem an open invitation to all suitors with all manner of purposes. And so I feel I must confine myself so as to not mislead anyone. For example, as a defense mechanism I now often look to the floor immediately after first eye contact. It is a strange and unnatural habit to adopt because people-watching is among my favorite hobbies and reading someone by their eyes a great fascination. But in this country it seems to be a necessity in order to carry on normal life. And, generally speaking, it serves its purpose.

Except for when it doesn’t.

After months of hiding money under my mattress I decided to undergo the gruelingly bureaucratic process of opening a bank account here. I suffered countless frustrating phone calls, meaningless trips to the bank and responses from representatives that my signature was too big or too little; my passport copy too blurry or too vivid. And then, finally, the moment when I could deposit my savings into a simple account was upon me. The bank was a well-respected national institution and I strode in with pride over having endured the rigmarole it took to get this far. I stood in line for half an hour, conscious but ignorant of the leery-eyed men around me. Afterwards, I congratulated myself on a job well-done, went back to work and gave the matter no further thought. That is until two hours later when I received a phone call.

“Hello, Ms Costello, this is you?” asked a suave voice.
“Who is this?”
“Mohamed from the bank. You were at the branch today, yes?”
“I was. Is there a problem?”
“You have been here before, no?”
“That is correct. It took me a while to sort the paperwork. Long story.”
“But everything is okay now and you deposited money today.”
“Yes, sir. Again, is there a problem with my deposit? Something go wrong?”
“No. No. Ahem… Do you remember me? I was wearing a black suit”
My mind flashed back to the tall goateed man in the perfectly ironed attire who was parading along the balcony of the mezzanine level as I stood in line before the teller on the ground floor.
“The movie star,” I blurted out because of the celebrity air created by the gallons of gel holding his hair beneath a sleek shell . (Sometimes I think my brain is just a little too close to my vocal chords and I ought to get some kind if inhibitor installed.)
“Ah, you are kind. I blush.”
“Okay, I remember. What would you like?”
“Well, I got your number from my colleague who accessed your account and I think you look really beautiful.”
“Are you serious? You’re not calling for bank purposes? I have to get back to work,” I replied brusquely and hung up.

Three minutes later I got the following text message: “Hi sasha, this is Mohamed, moviestar, bank, give me a call once ur free..c ya!”

Just like in the cab I thought, No, there’s no way.

Again, growing up as a blonde in the West and now having been in the Middle East for half a year just had not prepared me for this. Clearly, I now knew, these sorts of interactions are not confined to taxicabs and workers earning low wages. I have never met a man in a professional setting in the United States or Europe who was so bold, who acted with such nonchalance as to consequences and who seemed to think that he had committed no wrong after breaking the most basic rules of courtesy, confidentiality and work ethics. It was as if in his mind everything was excusable because he was on a mythical quest for the Viking woman which he sees as a natural and all-important pursuit.

I have heard of instances of inappropriate behavior here toward women of different hair types. And I can try to understand why Western women might be regarded with prejudices – much as Middle Eastern men in the West have sometimes been unjustly treated because of the way they look. But there seems to be a disparity where this behavior toward women is, like in the West, amplified for blondes with the extent of how far men go being exponentially greater. In New York I would get cat called more than my brunette friends. Here it’s like my every strand of hair is a curled finger motioning “come hither.”

I don’t know – and I don’t know if scientists know – what it is men find so mesmerizing about blondes. (We are, despite popular belief, similar to the rest of our gender in every other regard besides the color of our hair). Is it a product of culture? Genetically based? Perhaps some kind of mysterious refraction of the light bouncing off of our heads that makes men insane. Whatever the cause, I have found this yellow mass of follicles to be both a blessing and a curse. That much more so in the Middle East.
Copyright Last Exit 2009