As an American, when I think of an all-American looking infant, I picture a round-faced, blond-haired, blue-eyed baby. But I often wonder if the little blond epitomes of American beauty receive half of the gushing attention that a redheaded infant does. For me, a blond-haired baby’s beauty does not stop me dead in my tracks half as quick as a redheaded infant does. In fact, the only time I will ever comment to a mother on how beautiful her child is, is when her child is a redhead. Don’t get me wrong, I believe that all children are beautiful regardless of their hair, eye, or skin color. Maybe I’m just biased, being a redhead myself, or maybe I subconsciously feel the need to gush about the infant now, knowing full well that the growing years are never easy on the crimson-haired.
When my mother was pregnant with me, her snooty sister-in-law told her she’d be expecting a bouncing, blond-haired, blue-eyed, baby boy. I came in to the world all girl, with a mop of auburn hair and eyes that would eventually turn hazel. To this day, I smirk when I think of how I turned out just the opposite of what my aunt had very specifically requested. And from the moment I was born, I received constant admiration for my hair color. My mom and grandmother claim that on one occasion, while sitting in my stroller in a mall elevator, I became quite perturbed that none of my fellow elevator riders had commented on my hair so I delicately picked up a tuft of hair in my fingers and held it up until someone noticed me. I was too young for words at that point, but fully aware and spoiled by all the attention I had received during my short life.
Now, as a childless adult in my mid-thirties, I often receive a great deal of guilt for not having children and for not being sure if I even want children. I especially receive looks of concern from fellow redheaded women. Apparently, someone released an article a couple years ago informing the world of the inevitable extinction of redheads, which is expected to take place sometime in the next one hundred years. We are already considered the world’s number one minority. The culprit: the global intermingling of cultures; in other words, the increasing acceptability and popularity of interracial relationships. Interracial relationships are great for producing exotically beautiful offspring, but not so great for furthering along the dwindling redhead population. I can’t tell you the number of times that I have been implored to reproduce for the betterment of mankind and to ensure the survival of the dwindling population of redheads. I’m not sure if I had the option to choose, if I’d even choose to have redheaded children. Growing up redhead wasn’t always rosy.
At some time in every young redhead’s life, there comes a turning point. It is that point when the beautiful porcelain-skinned infant becomes a freckly, frizzy-headed youth. While scientists seem concerned that less than 2 percent of the world’s population has naturally red hair, young bullies don’t quite share the concern. For school children, a redheaded classmate is often a target for ridicule and torment. I was called Strawberry Shortcake, Rosy, Big Red, Fire Crotch, Pippi, and Annie. Hispanic coworkers referred to me as Roja. In the U.K., redheads are referred to as Gingers. In Australia, redheads are referred to as Blueys (mostly in regards to male redheads). In a world that seems so discriminate of dark skin, I receive my fair share of anguish for being so fair you could easily trace my veins through my skin.
The tween and teen years were the toughest. The popular girls were tanned with glowing skin and silken hair. I was ghostly fair with coarse, extra thick hair. I tried to tan by slathering myself with Crisco or tanning oil and heading for our chaise lounge in the backyard. That just resulted in painful burns and more freckles. I spent so much of my young life not liking who I was. When I read the comments in my eighth grade yearbook and saw that a few male students had ridiculed me for my pale legs (“Don’t blind me with your whiteness in gym class next year”) it fueled the fire of self-contempt in me. Throw in a face full of zits and a mouth full of braces, and I spent a large part of my youth wishing I were anyone but me.
