On Being a Redhead

As I learn more about this disease they call M.S. and its innate ability to strike fair-skinned people, most of whom are women, I began to wonder about the existence of scientific research as it relates to redheads and medical conditions.  More on that later, but first let me provide a little background on what life is like – as a redhead.

 

It seems many of our funniest family stories revolve around my birth.  My mom tells of the day that I was born, when she looked down, saw that I was a redhead, cried and then told the doctor to push me back in so I could cook a little longer.  She says it wasn’t because I was an ugly baby, but rather, because she knew from that moment that I would be challenged both by the sun and my fair skin.  The doctor didn’t do as requested.  In fact, he pulled me out with forceps.  For the first month of my young life, my devoted mother rubbed my head, day and night, trying to turn its cone shape into a normal round or oval.  To this day, I still have a slight bump on the top of my head and really big forehead.  Forceps = forehead.  I’m convinced.

 

My parents planted a tree the day I came home from the hospital.  It grew in our backyard for 39 years, shading me and protecting me from the sun.  They cut it down last year.  It grew unwieldy, much like me.  They saved me a big ring of the tree because it was one of my best friends.

 

 

So there I was, entering grade school – a redhead.  An undercooked, slightly cone-headed redhead with translucent skin shaded only by the freckles that donned me from head to toe.  Throw in a full set of braces, Peter-Pan collared shirts, knee high socks and a plaid school uniform and I was a beauty!  I had the fashion sense though to hide my slips under my Aunt’s couch and in her glove compartment instead of under my skirt.  And I wore my greatest fashion accessory – my patent leather shoes — with the utmost pride.  

I hated being a redhead.

By the time my junior prom arrived, I swore I was going to be like the other bronze beauties amongst my peer group.  The day of the prom, with both of my parents away from the house for the afternoon, I bought a reflective sun tanning blanket (hey, it was the 80’s).  Sun tan oil was banned in our house.  If it wasn’t 100 SUV Proof, it wasn’t on our shelves.  So, instead, I slathered on Crisco and I fell asleep in the sun for two, straight hours.  My dad pulled in the driveway, took a deep sniff of the air and asked, “Who is cooking chicken?”  Needless to say, while all the other girls were dancing the night away with their dates, I sat at the table with my boyfriend Phil, unable to move, unable to breathe without being in pain.  I was mortified and I smelled really bad.  Eau de Chicken doesn’t go away with just one shower.

By my senior prom, I grew in intelligence, but I still wanted to be tan. I had a beautiful white gown and I wanted tawny skin beneath it.  So, I played it safe and bought the newest item on the market — self-tanning lotion.  It was called “Q.T.” (remember it)?  I’m not one for patience or for paying attention to detail, so Phil (why he was still dating me at this point I haven’t a clue – he probably asks himself that often to this day) took his date to the prom with a big, orange handprint on her left shoulder.  My hands were perfectly white from wrists to fingertips. I glowed in the dark.  I looked ridiculous but had a funny story to tell. 

I didn’t come to terms with being a redhead until my early 20s.  And, now I love it.  It’s who I am, who I’ll always be.  My red hair is the first thing you’ll notice about me when you meet me and it’s likely the last thing you’ll remember when I leave.

Only 1-2% of the world’s population has red hair. Yet, have you noticed that thousands of American women actually want to be redheads?  They’re lining up in salons and in the Clairol aisle to change their natural shades to one of a sunset.  They say that imitation is the greatest form of flattery, but I don’t get it.  Look at popular culture –our movies, our television shows.  And, think of the redheads.  We’re either portrayed as the goofy clown (a.k.a. Lucille Ball) or we’re the vixens, the vamps, the prostitutes, the nutcase women.  Even in the Bible, the characters we vilified were redheads.  Judas Iscariot, the bad one of the brothers Cain and Abel, the “prostitute” Mary Magdalene – all redheads. We face the terrible stereotype of being red-tempered and hot headed. Believe it or not, over the centuries, redheads have faced great discrimination and prejudice. Yet, women want to join the vixens, vamps, and vilified and they actually pay to do it.

I don’t think it’s fair.  If you want to be a redhead, you should have to suffer the translucent skin.  It’s the kind where, by mid-winter, your blue veins can practically light up the night’s sky.  You should have to endure freckles on your nose when you’re 40! The only good thing about freckles is that in the summer they tend to grow together.  It’s the closest thing to a tan a redhead will ever see. But, one thing I won’t wish upon my non-naturally ginger sisters is the health problems that come with being a redhead.

In addition to a higher incidence of M.S. with the fair-skinned, redheads are more likely to bruise easily.  One of my former boyfriends actually gave me the nickname “Peach” because if you lightly brush my skin, it turns into a giant bruise.  We’re more sensitive to pain, have a higher risk for melanoma, need more anesthesia, and even have a higher incidence of gynecological problems.  Don’t cringe, fellas, I’m not going to go into great detail.  But, since I was 18, I have faced endometriosis, polycystic ovarian disease, fertility issues, and cervical cancer at 29.  That, coupled with M.S. at almost 40, just can’t be a coincidence.

Despite everything, I cherish my life and my experiences living as a redhead.  Neither of my parents have red hair.  For years, some asked if I actually belonged to the milkman.  Apparently the “mutated” gene (of course it has to be “mutated”) will most often skip a generation.  My red hair comes from two, beautiful women – my grandmothers.  My Grandma Woodle, until her last days, ensured she wore her red hair with glamour and style.  She kept it red (despite a bad stint when it was pink – I think by accident – for a short while) and she wore it proudly.  She had the personality of Lucille Ball, was lighthearted and fun.  I think I learned my sense of the comical from her.  I think my big heart and proud nature comes from Eleanor.  I never knew my Grandma Kierzek well.  She died when I was little and I know her mostly from photos and family stories.  I’m saddened that pictures were in black-and-white back then because I never grasped the true beauty of her hair or of her nature.  I’m told though that she had a fiery spirit, a strong-willed personality, and a beauty that exuded from her.  I think I developed my strength and fortitude from Nellie.  The combination of the sense of humor and that strength is what’s getting me through my battle with M.S. 

So, in honor of my grandmothers, I boast my red-headedness to the world!  If you have a young daughter who is a redhead, teach her to love her hair and love herself.  Keep an eye on her health, but don’t treat her with kid gloves. Plant a tree for her, she’ll cherish it forever.  If you’re a non-natural redhead, we genuine reds welcome you into our group.  But, now that I’ve learned a little more about my true ginger-sisters, I hold great respect for all of you in my heart.