It’s like I know my hair is pretty? But the thing that so many people feel they need to tell me is that they think my hair is pretty. Living with this hair for almost 40 years, I am aware of just how pretty people can think my hair is. And right now, I’ve got it long — middle of my back long. Sometimes, when the humidity is right, it will curl perfectly — that messy sort of curl that made Julia Roberts so famous in Pretty Woman. My hair is pretty.*
My hair is red. It started out nearly orange, and my mom made me sleep in these sponge rollers in order to get the perfect Annie look. It worked. I had dresses with crinolines, matching ribbons for my hair, purses, bobby socks. Pictures of little me are so cute!
As I got older, my hair started taming into a nice auburn. Nothing close to brown, but copper and blond and red and maybe a brown strand here and there. If you were going to dye your hair to match mine, you would have to dye each strand a different color and make sure it was in no particular pattern.**
The most irritating thing I’ve ever been called is Red.*** Do you know who calls you Red? Bullies. Dirty old men. People who don’t ask permission before being overly familiar…
Bullies will eventually move on to Carrot Top. I successfully convinced my bully that carrot tops are green**** and the next most effective put down was Copper Top, As you can see, I won that round*****.
The dirty old man thing though. Imagine what it’s like for a five year old to be called Red by a grampa-aged man, who is not her grampa. I remember telling the man that I had a name, and that he knew my name, and that he should not call me Red ever again. And that was the first time I remember a man deciding that my desire regarding myself was not as important as his fun at my expense. I do not allow anyone to call me Red to this day.
There have been a few people who have wanted to, but I think the look on my face when I tell them not to must say more than the little story above ever could. I used to say that Red was a nickname that I let people earn calling me. But I have never actually bestowed that privilege on anyone. To this day, I hear Red and think of that old man who overruled my autonomy to decide how I would be called. And I rather think the privilege is in knowing I’ll never think of that man, or people like him, when I am with you.
I got a haircut today. It was desperately needed and long overdue. When I saw my stylist, I gave her a hug (you know me and hugs…) When I sat in the chair, she literally gave a separate hug to my hair and said, “I’ve missed you!” And as much as she loves my hair, she’s never even thought Red was the right nickname for me.
*Just because I know my hair is pretty, I’m not saying that I’m pretty. I have my other flaws. It’s just, my hair is an asset, and we must always value our assets.
**I don’t know this because I’m not a hair stylist. And also, this sounds impossible. My hair stylist has said it is impossible to get my hair color from a dye, so I assume I have stumbled on the impossible way to dye hair to be my color. Also, these descriptions are based on looking at several strands of my hair individually.******
***Except maybe Sissy, because I’m not a sissy, but that’s a completely different story
****Try googling “Are carrot tops poisonous?”
*****We didn’t know about vibrators and how important batteries are.
******I can’t wait for my hair to go white when I’m like sixty so that I look like a proper witchy woman
