The Problem With Gingers

Remind me to not relocate to New Zealand.  

So Big Funny Kid loves to call me several nicknames, all of which include the word "Ginger".

Apparently in science class in 3rd grade he discovered that red-haired people are "genetic mutants".  He was distraught when he told me this.

I just rolled my eyes and said "DUH!!!!"

Of course, now that he is a big highfaluting teenager, he thinks it is funny to address my hair color. 

Truth be told, I kinda hated being a Ginger in middle school.  I had the pasty skin and the freckles and the glasses to boot.

BUT - here is the deal with Gingers.  

It is a Female Driven sort of thing.  We are usually fiery, funny, fabulous and occasionally sexy.

Ginger Men???  Not so much.

I will conclude with the words of the only Ginger Man (Tom Robbins)  that has ever made perfect sense to me:

Red hair is a woman's game.

The harsh truth is, most red-haired men look like blonds who've spoiled from lack of refrigeration. They look like brown-haired men who've been composted. Yet that same pigmentation that on a man can resemble leaf mold or junk yard rust, a woman wears like a tiara of rubies.


Not only are female redheads frequently lovely but theirs is a loveliness that suggests both lust and danger, pleasure and violence, and is, therefore, to the male of the species virtually irresistible.

Ginger were the tresses of the original femme fatale.

Now that women are demolishing those old misogynistic expectations, will redheads lose their special magic, will Pippi Longstocking come to be regarded as just one of the girls?


Hardly.


To believe that blondes and brunettes are simply redheads in repressive drag is to believe that UFOs are kiddie balloons.


All redheads, you see, are mutants.

(Amen, Mr. Robbins.  Amen.)