When I think of the witness-protection program, my mind’s movie screen flickers to aluminum-sided houses, where Ray Liotta orders pasta marinara and receives egg noodles with ketchup. But while we picture Red State Hades for someone who saw a body bludgeoned to death, I think, for me, I could just live in New York City, hiding in plain sight. As a blonde.
My natural hair hue is a very mousy, dull brown, so I started dyeing it shiny jet in college. I pretty much dress exclusively in black, with some white or gray, or perhaps, if I’m feeling daring, oxblood or dark purple. (A salesperson once corrected me, calling it “midnight amethyst.”) My style, which my mom has likened to that of a Sicilian widow, is not for everyone, nor is the severity of my face—pale with dark eyes and vamp lips.
