Ginger

It was never terrible growing up with red hair. But it was never easy, either. More so, growing into red hair was where I had to call on my courage.

Growing up, I had long, thick red hair tangled by the West Texas wind. I had bangs that shaped my small face of freckles. I remember being in airports or in church when strangers would assume intimacy with me as they touched my hair and offered a compliment. It was always old women: “darling, your hair is beautiful. If I could have any hair color, it would be yours.” Or it was hairdressers who would take a picture of my hair before they cut it, exclaiming: “do you know how hard I work for my clients to make this color come out of a bottle?”

I was affirmed by older men and women until I hit the awkward years of junior high athletics. That was when I was certain I would become a better ball player (or get more playing time) if I slicked my hair back, tying it back so tightly that it changed the shape of my eyes. Once I hit those awkward years of sweaty ponytails, I received less compliments.

Once I started receiving less compliments, my confidence and identity around my red hair began shrinking. Around that same time, it became very trendy to make fun of “gingers,” who were more kindly known as, redheads. The jokes were cruel, isolating, demeaning, and wildly funny.

I’ll be honest, if I didn’t have red hair growing from my scalp, I would have been one of the best at cracking jokes about red heads. Oh, I would have been good. Lucky for us, I did.

It wasn’t until I was twenty-one years old that I started thinking about my red hair differently. I was in a shopping mall in Dublin, Ireland waiting in line to use a free restroom. I was staring at myself 10 years ago. There I was; there she was. Her long red hair tangled and stringy from Irish wind. Her bangs shaping her sweet, youthful, shy face. Her small hands ran through her locks, wet from an Irish rain.

I was obviously having this rare moment of connection with another human. I was seeing myself in her, and she was clearly freaked out that I was searching her soul through her eyes.

I held back the great urge to tell her how beautiful her hair was. I wanted to tell her that she should love her hair. I wanted to be an encourager, but I also wanted to be a warning. I resisted my want to let her know how gorgeous and perfect she was with her red hair, because of her red hair. I just put myself in her position and felt pretty and noticed, and I walked away.