The 'G' Word

You have no soul', 'You would be fit if you weren't ginger', 'So you seriously don't tan, like at all?', are all things that have been said to be me throughout my 20 long years on this earth.

Being ginger to me has quite frankly never mean a thing, it has always been just my hair colour. However, to the world, it has seemed to mean a lot more.

My earliest memory or the time that I first became aware that I was 'different', was in nursery. A boy came over to me and asked me (probably innocently) what all those spots were all over my skin. They were my freckles...I know I should have punched him. But it was from that moment I suddenly became aware that I didn't fit in like everyone else - that I fell into this category of other that people seemed to find extraordinary.

I suppose it didn't help that mum later told me that a woman came over to my pram in the park once and after seeing my hair colour said, 'aw at least she's not a boy'. So from the earliest time I can remember I have been identified by the colour of my hair, which seemed to send the world a message that to this day I am unable to translate. It turns out being in the 2% of the population doesn't come without its challenges.

My hairdressers refused to cut/dye my hair, whilst boys in year 11 told me it was the one thing I could change to be 'fit'. These mixed messages I received in my very small world, left me in a dichotomy of feeling like I should either be put in a glass cabinet like a rare artefact or be looking for an entire hair transplant. I have even been told on one occasion that 'Americans would love me' - what does that even mean?

Whether it was boys and their persistent questions/accusations of curiosity surrounding my hair or the grandmas coming up to me saying her grandson once removed has the same colour hair - I was sick of it. Don't get me started on how many times someone has asked me if I'm related to someone because their ginger too (no honestly these have been genuine questions!).

In desperate times I try take comfort in the fact that in renaissance art, women were always depicted with red hair and described as 'natural muses'. Sandro Botticelli's 'The Birth of Venus', being one of these main sources of self esteem building for me. When this has been unsuccessful I get those who sympathise and tell me I'm strawberry blond or not a 'proper ginger', but strawberry blonde/auburn/titian or not, I wouldn't change a thing.

History equally offers no comfort, as in accordance with Greek mythology, when I die I am coming back as a vampire. And medieval times tell me that I was conceived during menstruation (an equally horrifying thought). The Spanish Inquisition would have me killed on belief that my hair could only be explained by myself being a witch. As my hair clearly showed I had stolen the fire of Hell (makes sense). I have even recently stumbled across the term 'gingerphobia'.

The world has always found weird ways to glorify, chastise and fetishise women with red hair. Whether that be through films, myths, legends, paintings...strange conspiracists that think red heads are somehow half alien half human. BUT, absolutely nothing has been worse than someone in a bar asking me if I was Ed Sheeran, after hitting on my friend.

However, despite my apparent quarrels with the opinions surrounding my hair colour, don't be fooled. My hair has always been something I wear with honour. It symbolises my Irish heritage and the history of those that came before me. And I think I speak for the whole ginger community, when I say that as much as we have been teased and bullied for being different - we would hate to be the same as everyone else. It's also pretty nice to be 'rare'.

So I end my post with the reminder to everyone that if you ignore my plea and want to conform to opinions of those before you, do so lightly, because you never know... I might actually come back as a vampire.

Maia Holdsworth