*I did not write this*
There's something about redheads.
I don't know what it is, but for some reason red hair provokes. It makes little boys run up and scream in your face "Eww. Your hair is RED!
It invariably causes postal men, panhandlers, truck drivers and 8th Avenue winos alike to yell "Hey Red," as if it's gonna garner them a smile (or a quarter).
Wrong.
You'll get neither a smile nor a quarter from a redhead with that line.
Another infamous line that we redheads of the female persuasion have to hear all the time is
"Hey, are you a natural redhead?" as the conjecturer's eyes make a beeline for your crotch.
That line ensures that you are never, ever gonna find out, mister. Granted, your life is dreary and your need for color I can understand, but we redheads are tired of being reduced to
a fetish,
a crotch,
a challenge,
a mystery to be solved.
It's not the hair that turns men on, it's the spirit that redheads exude.
..> Angela Carter once wrote about Marilyn Monroe that it was her "bruisability" that attracted men (and women); for redheads it's their woundability.
The feelings of being plump and freckly and ugly and the memories of boys yelling "carrot-top," "fire-crotch" and the rest never leave a redhead.
As children, we were sorry freaks.
We weren't asked to dance. People gawked at us. Adults felt pity for us. It sucked.
Then somehow, as we emerged from adolescence, our suspicious, wounded nature became misperceived as cool independence.
The long fact of our loneliness causes us to seem to want to be alone, which is, of course, an alluring adult quality.
We find ourselves suddenly transformed-- from childhood losers to fantasy girls and sex kittens.
Suddenly people become nice -- way nice in fact.
Everytime you order a scoop of ice cream you get a bigger scoop than everyone else. People open doors, doormen wink, no one ever shortchanges you.
People smile, even in New York City.
Redheads get royal treatment. Of course, having seen the other side of the coin, and knowing how fickle people can be, we become cynical and retreat still further into our woundedness.
As 8% of the population (in the U.S.), we're an ethnicity unto ourselves, and deserve to be considered as such.
On forms where one puts an "X" next to Latino, Asian, African-American, why not add Redhead to the list?
What about grants and affirmative action programs?
If non-redheads knew the way we were stigmatized, maybe we'd get some special consideration and be retroactively compensated for our wounds.
Lately, ELLE has been proclaiming that "Everyone's turning RED."
There's a RED ALERT!
Julia Roberts, Linda Evangelista and a host of others are pleading to their hairstylists for more red.
But what they and all these pseudo-redheads walking around don't understand is that no matter how red they turn they will never, ever be a redhead.
Being a redhead is a matter of spirit.
For this reason, Julia and Linda, you're never, ever going to be redheads.
You lack the wounds and the mystery.
In case any reader is thinking of turning red, and trying to seem like a redhead to get all the added benefits (see above), here are a few pluses and minuses to consider first:
You can never be invisible. You want to avoid your
landlord, or your ex? Forget it.
People always stare at you like you're a creature with three eyes. They also look at your hair, rather than into your eyes
Old men with Rita Hayworth still on the brain will smack
their lips at you.
You provoke randy behavior-- even from dogs.
Nicknames are spawned monthly for you by your friends, your lover(s), your mailman.
You get to be difficult, moody, silly, sullen. You're allowed to be yourself in all your moods and there's no guilt. This is definitely a plus.
When you get pissed off, your boyfriend doesn't ask you if it's your period. He just thinks it's your hair.
You don't have to join clubs or play board games at
parties.
You can be a loner and stare at the fire if you like (my biggest plus).
Insecure women won't like you, because red hair is like a red cape in a bullfight arena. It makes male hormones surge.
Minus? No, plus. Who needs insecure friends?
If you're an actress, you'll probably get a role tailored specifically for you to highlight your crotch (see Altman's Short Cuts).
If you happen to have been born a blonde or a brunette, you can pretend to be a redhead, but you'll always be shown up.
You've simply had it too easy.
The thing about being a redhead is that we're in this alone.
Redheads are the only group of people I can identify with. And redheads do identify with each other.
Like a special club.
We have special subway smiles.
A certain way of flipping and bouncing our red locks to communicate secret messages to each other.
I suspect it was some similar form of coded communication that caused an inordinate number of us to be hunted down and burned at Salem.
I suspect these redheaded "witches" were nothing more than loners.
Witches one century, independent women the next; it makes me wonder why there's such an element of danger in being different from the crowd.
But at least today's redheaded women aren't being blamed for
behavior they incite.
Rather, their independence and solitude is a mystery that is envied, not abhorred, as everyone lines up to get that particular shade of red which will distinguish them from the crowd.
If you can't spell, well, you'll get the job anyway. Bank presidents like to have redheads at their sides.
