Memory Lane

Being A Redhead … Being “Red”

So, when Black mentions Redhead Appreciation Day, I know it’s related to Red & Black and not her being “nice” and giving me a day off (or telling me that she appreciates me). And when she asks, “What is it like to be a redhead, Red?” part of me wants to reply, “What’s it like not to be a redhead?” because, for my entire life, I’ve been “Red.” (There’s a story there, but I’ll get to it later.) The honest answer is, well, I never thought about it, until now …


I know that redheads often have a reputation for being fiery and hot-tempered, but I managed to escape that characteristic. (Although it amuses me that many people make that assumption about me before they even get to know me.) Ironically, I’ve always preferred to blend in and not make any waves (good or bad). But being a redhead does tend to make you stand out in the crowd (unless, of course, you’re in Scotland or Ireland, in which case, being a redhead helps you blend in), and growing up, I just accepted the attention in my stride.

It never seemed to bother me. Not even when I lived in China, which was definitely an experience on so many fronts. But while many things were to be expected (and, to some degree, endured, but that’s another post for another day), being a redhead wasn’t something I thought about. Until the first time I went for a bike ride through the streets of Shanghai on a hot summer’s day,

Everyone was pointing at me. Was it because I was a Westerner on a bike? (This was in the 1990s, and I was part of the first wave of ex-pats in Shanghai.) Or maybe a woman alone? I know my pale skin and whiter than white legs weren’t anything special. Then I noticed that everyone was pointing at my hair. Being a redhead (especially with very long hair and before the days of bike helmets to hide it) in China meant I’d never escape being noticed.

Unfortunately, the other thing I’d never escape, like most fair skin people, especially redheads, is that my skin burns easily. Growing up, it was extremely frustrating as all my friends tanned (ok, this was in the days before we knew of the dangers of the sun), and I had only two color options – white and red (as in bright red!).

Then I started wondering whether being a redhead explains why I blush so easily (I can only imagine the research Black will send me, so I won’t mention it to her). Or whether it’s just a function of having such pale skin that makes it more noticeable. But just the thought of how easily I blush is embarrassing, which in turn causes me to blush. Which I guess makes me Red with a red face.

Interestingly, although I go by the nickname Red, I never knew of any other redheads called Red. Even my daughters, both redheads, have never been called Red. (Although they’d tell me that occasionally someone would call them “Ginger,” but each of them shut that down pretty quickly.) But being called Red has never bothered me, although it might be because of how my nickname originated.

Which is the story I alluded to earlier, and, of course, it’s all Black’s fault, so I’ll let her tell the story,

On the day my parents brought my sister home from the hospital, I quickly glanced at my new (and not entirely welcome) baby sister with her bright red hair, and immediately called her “Red.” To which my mother told me, and not in a kind motherly way, but instead rather emphatically, to NEVER call her that again. So, from that day forward, I never called her anything else.
Photo by Red

It was one of those mindless questions, “What was your favorite childhood book?” And although I couldn’t answer the question, it brought back wonderful memories of my favorite book while I was still living at home. Which recently turned into a new tradition … and maybe the highlight of my summer …

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It’s hot and humid, and Red and her daughter are thinking about the lonely turtle crossing the road (no, this isn’t the start of a joke – see story below) seeking water and shelter from the sun. It’s something we can all relate to as millions are dealing with brutal heat waves.



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I'm still smiling at you letting Sawyer drive your Mercedes G-wagen. Although I know that her dream car's a Ford F-150, I think yours is her "fantasy car".


Black's HeadBlack assets.rebelmouse.io


I knew the "long way" to drive back to your house, but after asking her if she knew the best way, it seemed easier to have her drive.


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Well, you might have thought of it as efficient, but she thought it was exciting. And she told me that she was honored you trusted her to drive.


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Did she mention that once we got back to your neighborhood, we saw a huge turtle on the road? Moving very slowly, of course, so I was not concerned it would become an unexpected road obstacle.
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Some things never change. Like my wanting to carve out more time for personal reading (which is what originally prompted the memory below). But now, as I sort through everything that accumulated in my house after our mom passed, I can’t help but reminisce. And also think (and smile) about what my dad taught me about “draining the swamp” …

This past weekend, although not on my "To Do" list (although maybe I should start including it), I decided to take a little time to catch up on reading. So, I grabbed the pile of newspaper articles that I've been saving to read when I have extra time (which doesn't happen often). The good news (pun intended) is that many of these articles are so old by the time I get to them, that they go straight into the recycle bin. Such as the one when Trump was still President and covered not only the pardons he had announced but also the ones that were still expected.

Anyway, I wasn't sure the subject still interested me, as obviously it was no longer relevant, but decided to give it a quick glance, which is when I saw that it mentioned how Trump had promised to "drain the swamp" when he was running for President in 2016. Before you stop reading – this post has nothing to do with politics. It's about how that phrase brought back one of my fondest memories of my Dad and a piece of paper now yellowed with age …

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