So, how did your date go? Will you see him again?"" I asked my friend, who was telling me about a date with some guy she was set up with by a friend of a friend of a creep.
""Well,"" she scrunched up her nose and twisted her big mouth, ""he has red hair.""
WHAT. A. BITCH. I looked at her wondering which was scarier—the fact that she dry-humped her blind date in his car after their dinner at Olive Garden, or the fact that she just insulted my people.
""What's that supposed to mean?"" I said, seething.
""Well, I wasn't trying to be mean but ..."" I threw a piece of the popcorn I was eating on top of her head, into her poopy brown hair.
Being a redhead has warranted different responses from people: To old ladies in grocery stores, there's nothing more beautiful; to old Irishmen, there's nothing more sacred; but to tan people, there is nothing more repulsive or horrifying than our transparent shell and fiery locks.
A sort of hairy racism blankets America, as comics regularly make fun of redheads, kids organize ""Kick a Ginger Day"" Facebook groups and the myth that some of us have no soul spreads like wildfire. I've even added fuel to this rumor, as children run from me, babies cry at the very sight of me and grown men curl into the fetal position once they get to know me, further proving that my body is vacant of anything resembling a soul.
As if our bad rap is not punishment enough, we redheads have to wear SPF 70 sunscreen year-round (just by sitting near a car window too long on road trips gives us sunburn), but people still have the nerve to speculate as to what color hair we might have on the rest of our bodies. Dumb blondes do not have to endure such hardship, and frumpy brunettes aren't subjected to these interrogations.
Due to the injustices we have to endure, I'm trying to raise awareness for this spread of racism and am organizing a protest to begin at Library Mall. There, we will burn pictures of redheads who have enforced the negative stereotypes against us (Lindsay Lohan, Pippy Longstocking, the Wendy's girl) and sign a Redhead Constitution, a copy of which I am leaving here for you to tear out, put into your pocket and consult whenever you see injustice befalling a redhead.
We the redheaded people of the United States, in order to form a more equal America, believe we too are entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of the American dream—money, ass and coke, the very ideals our forefathers built this country upon. Right now, redheads of America have no role models to emulate and are ridiculed with images of Chucky, Ronald McDonald and Carrot Top. I have a dream where those of milky-white skin will be able to be themselves completely and not feel the need to heap on pounds of Jergens self-tanner every time they step out of the shower. I have a dream that redheads will be able to go out to bars and when the song ""Sex is on Fire"" by Kings of Leon comes on, some douche won't come up to you holding his Bud Light, and yell, ""YEahhhhhhhh....your hair is on firrrreee"" into your translucent ear. Reds, we do matter—we are a genetic anomaly, and if we don't mate with each other, we will become extinct. And while redheaded men are sufficiently less attractive than their female counterparts, it is our duty to sleep with them once in a while just to make them feel alive (although redheaded women are encouraged to marry redheads to carry on the tradition for generations to come, no one will blame you if you choose a male with better, thicker, muted hair).
We've grown tired, and we can't take it anymore. No longer will we cake on bronzer, avoid wearing oranges, reds and pinks and rub lemon juice on our freckles in the vain hope they'll disappear. United we stand: We too can get cornrows if we want to, we can be just as brainless as blondes and we can be just as boring as brunettes. In closing, one nation under God with liberty and justice for some.
Are you a victim of the red plague? Share your stories at aaspencer@wisc.edu.
