I have red hair.
Yes. That’s right. I am a ranga, a carrot top, a freckle fart from K mart and wrinkled old men call me Bluey. Due to this horrific infliction, I obviously look exactly like Nicole Kidman, Lindsay Lohan, Julie Cooper and alas, Ronald Macdonald. Let me tell you something about ‘us redheads’. Never in our lives have we been an ‘attractive person.’ We have always been an ‘attractive redhead.’ Like this is an achievement. A rarity. Nothing is ever an act of chance or skill - it’s because of your hair. Clearly not sufficient enough in our own right, we remain forever in debt to the red.
Growing up in a coastal town where everyone had brilliantly tanned skin and golden sun bleached hair problematized my initial dream of ‘surfer girl’ - just a little. Kiama High School was not the place to bear such an curse. This was evident from the school photos alone. Blonde, Blonde, Blonde, Brown, Blonde, Blonde, Brown, Red, Blonde, Blonde, Blonde. Like a blemish I would loom from Arian perfection. The small rectangle occupied by my sarcastic face would be all but a crimson glow.
Forever wearing a rash vest and smearing zinc all over one’s face is not cool. Unfortunately I was reminded of this time and time again. Retreating to the shade for the last time I decided, fuck ’em. Surfboards are for wankers anyway, and re-birthed myself into a life that embraced what I was born with.
In the same way that straight people eventually cease going to gay bars, accepting the fact they are never going to be as fabulous at dancing or wearing sequins, I stopped going to the beach between the hours of ten and three. Other red heads chose different paths, a spray tan, peroxide and bright pink. Home dye hair colour, meters of black lace and platform buckled boots.
Although, it’s not all bad.
Jack White frequently pays homage to us in his songs. Tim Freedman acknowledges us as an aphrodisiac. I’ll take that. Even from the Whitlams. Some people believe the colour of our locks renders us ferocious. A clear marker of a person who is internally good, evil, mysterious.
I am of the belief there are two types of redheads.
The majority: We don’t wear bright colours. Fluro is a foreign concept. We all secretly rejoiced when hats became fashionable. The females among us are really sick of always having to be Ginger when we re-enact hits from Spice World.
Then there are the others.
The strawberry blondes. The no I don’t bleach my hair I just have red eyebrows and an alabaster complexion. Imposters. Traitors. Fakes. These people should be avoided. They are fooling no one. We can pick one of our kind from miles away…
If blondes attract the men, then redheads attract the crazies. Not the token quirky dude who wears happy pants and writes comedy set to folk songs. The guy who stalks the streets of the inner west drinking from a carton of full cream milk. He charges at you. Arms flailing. Preparing for embrace.
I fucking love redheads!
No matter which way you look at this. It is far from flattering. It is downright humiliating. Being showered with semi–solidified milk is probably the worst method by which someone can communicate admiration or affection.
In the same vein, there are always the lunatics who make a bad thing worse.
Something I recently became aware of is a website with the title Realm of Redheads or more appropriately; ‘Place for freaks who happen to have red hair’. I would just like to reiterate that this website (complete with competitions for the curliest hair, the best redheaded pet and largest redhead family) is not acceptable. If you ever see someone wearing a shirt with GOT METOCOLIN 1!?! printed across the front, assume they are socially inept and choose to hate them on the basis they are representing a minority. Who already have a reputation to salvage.
Although some may pity us for being branded with a stereotype, chased by psych ward escapees, or being represented by imbeciles, I will say only this. I have never, ever in my life been lost at an event or music festival. As soon as a hint of disbanding occurs I am plucked from the crowds as easily as a pickle from a cheeseburger. In a sea of blonde, brown and black, we are a shining light, ready and waiting to burn beyond recognition thanks to our enemy, the sun.
This is unless of course I have run into Jack White…
image via wildfox
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