Ding-a-ling-a-ling your hair’s on fire. Howaya Rusty, did someone leave you out in the rain or wha? Ah lookitya you must eat up all your carrots. Well Bosco! Copper top. Duracell.
Yes, I have red hair. I am a mutant. No seriously I’m an actual mutant – red hair is a recessive genetic trait caused by a series of mutations in the melanocortin one receptor (MC1R), a gene located on chromosome 16. Because it’s a recessive trait, it must be inherited from both parents to cause the hair to become red. But the last person to have red hair before me was my grandmother. When it comes to my family, I’m the only ginge in the village.
There’s a story in my family. A story about my birth. It involves my father trying to wash ‘the blood’ off my head. It wasn’t blood. It was just my hair. My family loves this story; everyone laughs because it’s just so hilarious to be ginger. When you are born with red hair, you discover what it’s like to live with the last socially acceptable form of racism. If that sounds like an extreme statement let me tell you that the comments listed in my opening sentence were what adults said to me as a child – I was never teased by another kid about my hair. When you grow up with these ‘jokes’, you can be assured that by the time you reach adolescence you will hate, detest and resent every hair on your head.
Scientists believe that the ‘ginger gene’ (V6OL allele) showed up 50,000 years ago after humans left Africa for colder climates. This gene made human’s skin lighter, as they were exposed to less vitamin D from the sun. Ireland may be famous for its redheads, but there are not many of us; only ten percent of Irish people have red hair. Maybe that’s why we get treated like we do, like a cross between a freak and a rarity, a thing of humour and a thing of beauty.
Have you ever had someone you don’t know ask you about your pubes? No? I have. Ever been surrounded by a group of people in the pub laughing at your fire-crotch or ginge-minge? Does the carpet match the curtains? Wow bud, I never knew you had such an interest in interior design. Ah, c’mon it’s hilarious, I love it. I mean, who doesn’t love being humiliated and having their body mocked in front of other people?
The most common thing I get asked is if I’m a natural redhead. Yes, I am. Now off you go and stop the next brunette you pass in the street and ask her if she’s a natural. Oh no wait that might be weird…Next up, do I have a fiery temper? I do now. Then there’s the male sexual checklist “I’ve never slept with a ginger before.” Well Jaysus I’ve never slept with a beard before, what’s your point like?
Of course, none of this really bothers me because, thanks to Southpark, we all know that gingers don’t have souls, what with being related to Satan and all. Obviously we are, but that’s a private matter.
Some people try to be nice. By comparing you to every famous ginger bird that they can think of. Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Amy Adams? Isla Fisher? Nicole Kidman? Julianne Moore? Christina Hendricks? Cynthia Nixon? Jessica Rabbit – hang on she’s not even a real person for feck’s sake. There are also the ahbuts “ahbut yours isn’t red-red.” Great, because obviously that would be a bad thing.
I have three kids. I prayed with every pregnancy that they wouldn’t be born with the bane, that they wouldn’t have to put up with the teasing and the lifelong commentary on their appearance. Two of them are Scandinavian blondes; my eldest has red hair. He’s a boy, so maybe his experience will be different. Maybe it will be worse. Maybe people have finally copped on. Maybe not. He dressed up as Harry Potter for Halloween one year and came home from school to tell me that everyone said he wasn’t Harry, he was Ron Weasley. Because he’s a ginger. My own ginger heart cracked a little for him. I told him Ron was cool. I reminded him that Ron was Harry’s best friend in the world, that he was a hero, and most importantly of all that he got the girl. Hermione chose Ron. Just like Mummy would choose Michael Fassbender, Prince Harry, and Domhnall Gleeson.
My handsome, witty, charming eight-year-old will have to learn to play the game. Like all of us gingers. He’ll have to learn to smile his way through it, to answer repetitive (and ridiculous) questions in a cheerful manner, to bring factor 50 suncream on holidays, and to take whatever red hair-related nickname he is given down the GAA on the chin. Eventually he’ll learn that it’s just the way it is. But he’ll also learn that it’s actually really, really cool to be a mutant.
