This isn’t the set up to some elaborate blonde joke. If it was I would have used the dodo as an example of an extinct species instead of the passenger pigeon. Of course by doing that I would have risked not only being bombarded with hate mail but possibly never having sex again in my life. No, this theory is based on real scientific research done by a real geneticist, Steve Jones of the very real University College in London, a city I know is real because I’ve been there. Sure, the food in London may not be real, but the city is.

     Genes are responsible for making us what we are. I know parents try to take credit for that—at least when we do something good—and schools deny to the death having anything to do with it, but the truth is, it’s genes that are responsible. They determine our basic traits like height, the shape of our butt, intelligence, and hair color. And just as there are people who deny the theories of evolution, there are those who deny genetics. They’re the ones who wear shoes with high heels, get liposuction and fanny lifts, copy off their neighbor’s test paper, and use Clairol No. 32. Face it, genetics has little to do with reality.

     Darker colors are dominant and lighter colors are recessive. This may seem unfair, but it too has been going on since the first paramecium slithered out of the primordial ooze and noticed its hair was green. This means that if a dark-haired person mates with a light-haired person, their child will almost always end up with dark hair. Especially if the father has dark hair and happens to be the real father. That means that as long as blondes and brunettes interbreed there will be more and more brunette offspring. Hence, the end of natural blondes as we know it.

     This is serious stuff. It’s true that as long as there’s peroxide on the planet there will be blondes, but it goes deeper than that. It will mean the end of blonde jokes ("Daddy, what’s a blonde?"). It will signal an Armageddon-like battle as the other hair colors fight to decide which one will have more fun. And gentlemen—assuming there are any left, which judging by what I hear from woman, is a very debatable point—will have to start preferring something else. Hell, even blonde moments will have to be renamed, though that should be simple. I vote we call them Quayle Moments.