The world is transfixed with the virginal and the vacuous blonde but there is also a space for the deeply disturbed blonde. She is not psychopathic as her male counterparts, she rarely strikes out but sometimes she does, slicing away wrongs. She is complex, beguiling and not to be categorized–she oscillates, she slinks, she morphs, try to hold onto her and she slips through your fingers like sand. Sometimes she is punished by patriarchy but often she becomes ‘otherwordly,’ haunting the peripheries of frame, knocking, scraping and digging away at rational linearity. I love disturbed blondes.