DEAR DIARY — Part 6
October 24th
I do not have much time to write, but I wanted to note this before bed.
I told Adam that I had been seriously thinking about dyeing my hair blonde, and he thought it was a great idea. That is a relief, because I had already made the appointment before I brought it up to him. At least now I can feel excited about it without second-guessing myself quite so much.
So it is official.
The next time I write, I will be blonde.
I have to it, I am curious to see how it will feel. I keep looking at myself and trying to imagine it, and it still seems slightly unreal. But in a good way. Like I am about to step into a version of myself I have been circling for a little while now.
I suppose there is only one question left.
Do blondes really have more fun?
October 26th
Guess what? I’m blonde now.
I just got back from the salon, and I still keep catching sight of myself and stopping short like I’ve walked in on someone else. It took forever, but it was definitely worth it. I must have looked in the mirror a hundred times already. I keep pulling my hair forward over my shoulders and just staring at it against my skin, against my face, turning my head to see how the color changes in the light.
It’s strange, because I really do love it. I think it looks good on me—better than good, actually. It makes me look brighter and less severe somehow. I didn’t realize how much darker hair made me look serious until it was gone.
For a second when they finished blow-drying it and I saw the full effect, my first thought was that I looked a little like Brittany. Or like one of those pretty, giggly girls who always seem to float through campus without ever looking tired or burdened by a single intelligent thought. The sort of girls who always look effortlessly decorative, like they were made to be looked at. I have spent years quietly judging them
It honestly startled me. Not because I think I look ridiculous. I don’t. That’s almost the problem. I think I look... pretty. Very pretty, actually. Pretty in a way that feels less academic and more obvious.
That scared me for a moment but this is probably ridiculous. It’s just a hair color, after all. I’m still the same person with the same deadlines and the same amount of work waiting for me.
Still, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel like I’d crossed into slightly different territory.
I keep looking at myself and thinking that I look more fun. Which is such a silly thing to think about yourself, but there it is. Maybe that is why people always say blondes have more fun. Maybe it isn’t that they actually do. Maybe they just look like they should.
I suppose I may as well test the theory tonight, because Adam is taking me out to a club. I haven’t even decided what to wear yet, and somehow that feels much more important than it usually would. I want everything to match the hair. Or maybe I just want to see what kind of girl I look like now when I’m fully dressed for it.
On the school front, I’m still staying on top of my deadlines, which is more than I can say for Ava. I heard she missed one of hers, and I will it that brought a smile to my face. After all the comments she made about my clothes, it feels a little satisfying. Not that it really matters. It just seems to me that meeting deadlines is a much better sign of seriousness than whether or not someone approves of what I’m wearing.
Anyway, I need to go. Adam just got here.
October 27th
All right, it’s official.
Blondes really do have more fun.
Adam took me out to the club last night, and I swear every male eye in the place turned toward me when we walked in. Of course, that may also have had something to do with the new dress Adam bought me. It was a black backless halter dress with a plunging neckline, much more daring than anything I would normally have chosen for myself. I hesitated when I first put it on. It felt like a lot — a lot of skin, a lot of attention, a lot of everything. But the look on Adam’s face when he saw me was more than enough to convince me to go through with it.
And once we got there, I understood exactly why he had wanted me to wear it.
The music was so loud it felt like it was vibrating through the floor, but Adam had reserved us a booth in the back where it was a little more manageable. We sat there for a while, drinking and talking, and I could feel people looking over even from across the room. I tried to act as if I wasn’t noticing, but of course I was. It would have been impossible not to. After a couple of drinks, I was warm and a little dizzy and very ready to get out on the dance floor.
Things got a little hazy after that, I’ll it. Not in a bad way. Just in that pleasantly blurred way nights out sometimes do, where one moment melts into the next and all you really are flashes — lights, heat, laughter, Adam’s hands at my waist, the feeling of moving without thinking too much. He told me afterward that several guys came up and offered to buy me drinks, which I only vaguely , but apparently I managed to turn them down politely enough even in my state.
I’m glad he was there. I felt safe the whole night, which probably made it much easier to simply enjoy myself.
When we got back to Adam’s place, I was still flushed and half-giddy from the club, and the rest of the night was just as good as the rest of the evening had been. We had sex and it was amazing like always. Honestly, I am beginning to wonder whether I simply never understood before how good this could be. That sounds absurdly dramatic, but there it is.
Afterward, Adam tried to put me under again, but it didn’t work. He thinks it was because I was still a little drunk from the club, which is probably true. It was disappointing, because I had wanted that lovely floating feeling again, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. We still ended up having a very good night.
This morning we stayed in bed far longer than we should have and spent a couple of lazy hours wandering around his apartment and doing absolutely nothing useful. Then, a little before noon, I had what felt at the time like a brilliant idea: I challenged him to see how long he could keep me under if we tried again properly.
That may have been a mistake. I more or less lost the whole afternoon.
Or at least that is what it feels like. I sitting down with him, I his voice, I that heavy drifting sensation, and then almost nothing. Just blank space, really. When I came back properly, hours had gone by. I’m not entirely sure what he did, if anything, besides keep me there. Like usual, I don’t feel dramatically different afterward. Just very calm, almost too calm.
Adam left after dinner because he was meeting a couple of his friends at a bar tonight, and I have decided I am doing absolutely nothing with the rest of my evening. I think I’m going to curl up on the couch, put on a movie, and enjoy a quiet night for once.
It has been a while since that sounded this appealing.
Hypnosis Experiment Log
Subject: Jessica Sandler
Date: October 29
The first week of Jessica’s training has gone better than expected.
I knew she was suggestible, but I did not expect her to begin anticipating the changes so quickly. On Thursday, she asked me whether I thought she would look good with blonde hair. She tried to make it seem casual, as if it were only a ing thought inspired by some girl in her department, but the way she watched me while asking made it obvious that my answer mattered.
I told her she would look beautiful.
By Friday night, she had dyed it.
It is not yet the platinum blonde I would like to see eventually. It is more of a honey blonde, almost tasteful. The sort of blonde a girl chooses when she still wants to believe she is being sensible. But it is a start, and a significant one. When she came back from the salon, she kept touching it, pulling it forward over her shoulder, then pushing it back again, pretending to be embarrassed by the change. She asked several times whether it looked strange. It didn’t. It softened her face immediately. She looked younger, warmer, less severe. Less like the Jessica who has spent years building herself around intelligence and control.
That night, I took her out to a club. It seemed useful to let her experience the change in public. Reinforcement is stronger when it comes from outside sources as well as from me. I had bought her a dress earlier in the week, something more revealing than she would have chosen on her own but not so extreme that she could refuse it outright. She hesitated, but not for long.
At the club, she was self-conscious at first. She adjusted the dress often and noticed every glance that came her way. After a drink or two, she relaxed. After a few more, she was smiling, laughing, and clearly enjoying the attention while pretending not to.
She got more drunk than usual. I am not sure whether the drinks were stronger or whether she has begun to internalize the idea that blondes are lighter, gigglier, and less in control. With Jessica, either explanation is possible. Her mind has a way of moving toward a suggestion even before I have deliberately reinforced it.
When we got back, she was pleased with herself and with the night. I tried to put her under, but it was almost useless. She could not focus long enough to follow my voice. She kept losing the thread, laughing, drifting away from the cues before they could take hold. It did not feel like resistance. It felt like the alcohol had made her attention too slippery to manage.
Saturday was more productive. Jessica surprised me by challenging me to see how long I could keep her in trance. I do not know whether she was curious, playful, or simply more comfortable with the process than she wants to it. Whatever the reason, I accepted. By my count, I kept her under for about six hours. Not at the deepest level the entire time, but steadily enough that she remained responsive and easy to guide.
I used the session to reinforce the previous suggestions.
The main focus remains her concern with what other people think. Jessica has spent most of her life trying to be impressive: intelligent, serious, controlled, difficult to dismiss. She likes approval, but only the right kind of approval. That habit needs to weaken. I do not want to destroy her ability to function, especially with her thesis deadline coming up, but she needs to stop treating ordinary attention as a threat to her identity.
So I reinforced that it feels good to be noticed. That compliments do not need to be intellectual to matter. That she does not have to analyze every glance. That being ired for her hair, her body, her clothes, or her smile can be pleasant rather than embarrassing.
Most importantly, I reinforced that my opinion matters more than anyone else’s. That distinction is essential. I do not want her careless in a general sense. I want her careless about others and sensitive to me. She responded well. When prompted, she accepted that pleasing me felt good, and that my approval should feel especially important.
I also worked on some of her remaining discomfort around submission and intimacy. I will not record the details here, except to say that her resistance continues to weaken. She still likes to think of herself as choosing, which is useful. A suggestion becomes much more stable when she believes it came from inside her.
I tried one small experiment as well. I attempted to remove a single word from her vocabulary: avocado. The suggestion was that she would still recognize the object, know what it was, and understand how it was used, but the word itself would slip away whenever she reached for it. I do not know whether it worked yet. I will test it casually sometime this week.
By the end of Saturday, she was tired but content. She said she felt floaty, and she seemed almost proud of how long she had stayed under. That is promising. The longer sessions may become very useful if she continues to associate them with comfort rather than alarm.
Now I need to decide the next step.
I considered adding a desire to work out. Not because Jessica needs it; she looked excellent in the dress. But more tone would help, and exercise would encourage her to think of her body as something to maintain and display. Unfortunately, the timing is poor. Her thesis deadline is too close, and I do not want school becoming a problem before her graduation in June.
For now, appearance is the better target.
She still has too many careless college habits. She wakes late, rushes, throws on whatever is nearby, leaves with barely brushed hair and breakfast in her hand, then pretends this proves she is too serious to care about shallow things. That needs to change.
I do not need her spending an hour getting ready. Not yet. But I want her to begin feeling uncomfortable when she leaves looking careless. A little makeup, better outfits, styled hair. Lip gloss, at minimum. Clothes chosen because they flatter her, not because they are convenient.
The goal is to make prettiness feel like a responsibility. Something she notices. Something she maintains. Something that becomes part of how she understands herself.
Next session, I will reinforce three things: that she enjoys being blonde and wants to go lighter, that my compliments on her appearance matter deeply, and that she should prepare herself more carefully before leaving the apartment. Just enough that one morning she will pause in front of the mirror, reach for lip gloss, and believe it was her own idea.