Red to the Bone….
Red to the Bone..
Loathed, loved, reviled, revered, redheads generate more extremes than almost any other natural genetic disposition. I swear allegiance to the tribe of red haired women.
Redheads are trouble. We all know it. Anne of Green Gables said “You’d find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair,” and “People who haven’t red hair don’t know what trouble is.” Sylvia Plath wrote in her poem Lady Lazarus: “Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and eat men like air.” All a far cry from Marilyn’s easy giggle in Gentlemen prefer Blondes. Alfred Hitchcock believed that “Blondes make the best victims. They’re like virgin snow that shows up the bloody footprints.” No redhead would ever be called virginal. It’s more likely they’re the one wielding the knife.
Innocent, never, comedic, certainly. Writers have for decades used red hair as a frame for their wildest women. From the early days of TV with ‘I love Lucy’ to the pithy put downs of ‘Will and Grace’ a statement redhead indicates a complexity of character that an actress of any other shade would need acres of dialogue to convey. Lucille Ball said “Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead.”
Molly Ringwald knew it in the Breakfast Club. Flame haired Addison of Grey’s Anatomy made such an impression on viewers, it warranted her own spin off series. Bree van de Kamp is by far the most psychotic of the Desperate Housewives. Redheads on our screens have enjoyed the dubious privilege of being complicated, crazy and sometimes, downright dangerous. But what makes a woman choose to be red?
The stereotypical redhead, if there could possibly be one, is fiery, tempestuous, quick to anger. If there ever was a hard sell, there it is. Of course, there’s always the sexual connotation. Henna was used in ancient times as an adornment to the hair and hands of prostitutes. Women of loose morals were branded ‘scarlet’. There’s a saying – ‘gentlemen may prefer blondes, but only a real man can handle a redhead’. Bruce Springsteen agreed when he sang “Man, you ain’t lived till you’ve had your tyres rotated by a red headed woman.” But it’s more than sex, it’s also about emotion. From the Boss to Botecelli, red hair symbolises all that is most passionate in a woman.
There has always been a stigma attached to natural born red heads. Less than 2% of humans have red hair, with around 4% of the European population carriers of the recessive gene. It is regarded with both ridicule and admiration – and it’s this duality that sets it apart from the clichéd ‘bubbly blondes’ and ‘brainy brunettes’. In Corsica, if you walk past a redhead an old custom is to spit, while in Denmark a red haired child is considered fortunate. In series 3 of Big Brother, inmate Tim took to shaving his chest hair under his bedclothes, in order to hide his ginger ‘condition.’ TV ads have also played with the subject. A woman, ridiculed at school for her ginger locks becomes a flame-haired siren in an advert for straightening irons. A tongue in cheek road safety ad in Australia warns that using a mobile while driving may lead one to sleep with a ‘ginger’. Could this possibly be a fate worse than death? The Australian advert received a slew of complaints, though the Advertising Standards Bureau was forced to state - for the record - that having red hair is not a disability nor does it qualify as an ethnic minority.
I have two little boys, one is a dark like his dad, but our youngest, just six months old has developed a soft crown of vaguely ginger hair. There’s a ginger gene in there somewhere, his aunts all have glorious copper tresses, yet the amount of sympathetic looks and gentle commiserations I’ve received already are at best surprising and at worst, downright rude.
For us voluntary redheads, it takes commitment to stay that way. Red pigment in hair dye, even the most permanent, leach from hair follicles at the slightest encouragement. Fading can only be prevented with regular trips to the colourist. Being red takes time and money. Staying red, means avoiding swimming pools, sunshine, saunas and for mercy’s sake, don’t buy white towels. It means accidentally staining the arms of your glasses orange, and it means having ears the colour of mandarins at least once a month. It’s work. You have to really mean it.
Understanding who we are as women in inexorably linked to our hair. Make up, clothes and hair colour allow us as women to express our identity. Some might argue that paint and dye is a camouflage, a glamour, or deceit, but truly it is just another way for us to tell those around us who we really are. A woman who chooses not to colour her hair is doing exactly the same thing, sending a message about herself – that she is herself – raw, natural and unapologetic. No doubt there are disasters along the way. No-one gets it right first time. We all thought raven hair would look stunning at some point in our youth. And how many times do you have to get it wrong at home with those plastic gloves before you slink into a salon and apologise for trying to cut out the middleman?
For me, my adventures in hair colour began around the same time I shed the braces from my teeth, and about ten pounds of puppy fat from everywhere else. After years of self loathing and youthful angst, I felt like a real person. And then when I turned red, something just clicked. I found a reserve of self belief I never knew I had, the colour allowed me to be on the outside how I felt on the inside. Perhaps that’s why I always come back to it. The past few months of maternity leave allowed me a certain level of excessiveness with hair colour. It’s amazing just how vibrant you can go. My hair isn’t just flaming red, it’s screaming ginger, and I love it. I get why Vivienne Westwood has tangerine hair – she understands, to the nth degree. Soon it will be back to work and time to turn the volume down for fear I blind my co-workers and it feels a little like I’m turning my back on something essential…
Being red is complicated. Being red declares your allegiance to a tribe of women who do not fall easily into clichés. Anne of Green Gables understood. Sylvia Plath roared her approval. And for now, my roots may be growing, but inside the colour it goes all the way to the bone.
