It’s True! Blonds Have More Fun in Court! (Part two of two) The longer I sat in traffic court waiting for my case to be called, the more innocent I became. By the time the judge called for a lunch break at 1, I had gone from “clearly guilty and throwing myself at the mercy of the judge” to “somewhat guilty with an explanation,” to “no contest.” By 2:15 when my case was called, I was “adamantly not guilty.” I had planned to plead guilty because the trooper was really nice to me and kind of cute, and I didn’t want to offend him. It was he, after all, who suggested at the scene of the three-car wreck that I caused on the interstate by cutting in on somebody that the judge might like it if I went to driving school before I went to court. He hadn’t treated me like a blubbering, pathetic woman, even though I was a blubbering, pathetic woman, after I unwittingly performed a 180-degree spin into oncoming traffic when the car in the right-hand lane caught my back tire. I really wanted to honor that. And the judge. I’ve had therapists who weren’t this nice. She apologized to each person for having to wait so long and kindly told each person she was fining that she would give them plenty of time to pay. She was even gentle and compassionate to the dude she sent to jail, caught for the eighth time driving on a suspended license. Oh, and with an open container of beer in the car, to boot. Which he swore wasn’t his. I really didn’t want to disappoint her. Like Helen Hunt in As Good as it Gets, she was the kind of woman that makes you want to be a better woman. But two days of listening to behind-the-wheel horror stories, lies and excuses, first in driving school and then in court, changes a person. It makes you begin to think that, like the pregnant girl who said she had to drive that fast because she needed to go to the bathroom, you need a better cover story than “the car was in my blind spot and I didn’t see it.” As I listened to the woman who didn’t know that her license has been suspended because she had left the state with no forwarding address after getting three tickets in four months and the man who had to switch drivers with his girlfriend after the accident because she was too coked out to get caught under the wheel, I realized that the only thing I was guilty of was driving while blond. Though my current picture shows me as white-haired, a look I adopted about five years ago after getting tired of painting the bathroom every six months from slopping hair color all over the place, I am actually now blond. It’s a color I had never experienced, and, much like one of my grad school professors who believed that a woman shouldn’t turn 40 before starting her own rock band, I decided that a woman shouldn’t turn 60 without having ever been a blond. In January I became blond. In February I did a doughnut in the middle of the interstate, something I had never done in my brunette or gray past. Ipso facto, it was completely not my fault. When the nice judge lady called my name at 2:30, I pled not guilty by reason of vanity. That, combined with my certificate from driving school the day before, got me off. I felt vindicated. Justice clearly won the day, and it was blond.