By Curran White
Redhead. Carrottop. Ginger. Fire crotch. By the time I had my first bowl cut I’d heard every nickname under the sun for my alien strawberry blond hair and my equally foreign freckly, pale skin.
Sure, the teasing was mostly good-natured, but for a sensitive kid it was hard to mask how awkward the comments made me feel. I guess you could say I’ve been very aware of my genetic mutation (because that’s really what it is) since my early childhood, especially because I was always the only redhead in my grade. Being an exotic animal in a jungle full of brunettes and blonds makes you an easy target for unsolicited attention.
People would stare at me when my family went grocery shopping. Old women would stop my mom in public and ask if they could touch my hair. One of my earliest memories of being different is when I was five and vacationing with my family in Hawaii. We were approached by a gang of Japanese girls who asked my parents if I could pose for a photo with them. Had I been straight, this notice from the lady folk might’ve gone to my head. But it just made me feel uncomfortable. And, frankly, I was so ashamed of my difference that I practically loathed it. I even went as far as to ask my mom to pay for surgery to remove my freckles.
I must have a freckle for every time someone asks me about my pubes – which, if you saw my forearms, you’d really understand how often this question arises.
By the time I was old enough to get a lap dance, people stopped talking about the hair on my head and instead shifted their focus further south.
“Does the carpet match the drapes?”
I must have a freckle for every time someone asks me about my pubes – which, if you saw my forearms, you’d really understand how often this question arises. The fascination some people have with my crotch is beyond me. The worst is when there’s an unfortunate incident that exposes my fiery muff to the world. “So the carpet does match the drapes,” a coworker of mine once said, while pointing out the fact that my shirt had popped up, exposing my burning bush.
The feeling of being a walking, talking punch line lingered into my early adulthood. It wasn’t until I turned 25 that I let the hair on my face grow, and I realized that people actually fetishize my mutation. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my three years in San Francisco, it’s that people here love a good beard. Make it a red beard and suddenly everyone’s your friend – and by everyone, I mean especially gay men.
The attention I’ve received from other beardy gay men has ignited in this city. It really started to catch me off guard when even random passersby would mutter “I love your beard” while making eye contact with my chin. It’s gotten to the point that when I hear “Can I touch it?” I automatically know the stranger is talking about my face garden and not about the Prince Harry living in my pants.
This shift from being the butt of a joke to establishing a sense of pride has been a new experience for me as I settle into my 20s. I find myself flirting with the attention more and more.
San Francisco makes it easy to unleash ginger pride too. There’s even a monthly gay redhead appreciation party here, appropriately called “Red Meat.” When a redheaded friend of mine and I went for the first time – on Saint Patrick’s Day, no less – the event lacked both steak and other gingers, to my disappointment. The crowd was populated by what I call “strawberry pickers,” eyeing us as though they were choosing a cut of meat, and my friend and I were the last two pieces left in the joint. But I’d be lying if I said we didn’t enjoy the objectification we got from afar.
When your skin tone is such that even a Band-Aid is tanner than you are, sunbathing in public – like, let’s say at Dolores Park – becomes a game of who’s going to make a comment about your paleness first.
Sometimes the fawning from strangers gets downright bold. I was at Hard French once when a girl asked if she could taste my beard. I’m not shitting you. Although I was flattered, I politely declined. I didn’t need to have my chin covered in a stranger’s saliva – or at least not that day. I’m usually a good sport about the oddball requests, though, especially if you ask nicely. Occasionally, I even thrive off the awkwardness of it all.
Still, there are things I always struggle with as a ginger. Finding the right color scheme to complement my paleness, for one. My fashion choices weren’t always as refined as they are today. In high school, I dressed in lots of yellows, oranges, and reds. When I look back at photos from those days, I realize I looked like a hot dog. The worst photographs I have from that awkward age, though, are the ones where I’m clearly sunburned, yet for some ungodly reason I decided to wear red.
Speaking of which, the sun is another big issue for redheads. When your skin tone is such that even a Band-Aid is tanner than you are, sunbathing in public – like, let’s say at Dolores Park – becomes a game of who’s going to make a comment about your paleness first. Someone always ends up telling me “Goddamn, you’re white.” If I wasn’t always so busy slathering SPF 70 all over my body, I might’ve come up with a retort by now. On the rare occasion I’m not carrying a tube of sunblock, I have to retreat to the shadows. And let me tell you something: Trying to convince your non-ginger friends to move to the shade from a prime blanket spot in the sun is a struggle in its own.
More often than not, the climate in San Francisco is perfect for gingers – benevolent Karl the Fog allows us just the right amount of sunshine-filled days. On the days Karl isn’t hanging around, I can last about 20 minutes outside without much sun protection; after that I begin to understand what a fried egg feels like. I once wore a beanie outside for 15 minutes one particularly sunny afternoon, only to get a half-moon-shaped burn on my forehead. I spent the next several days trying to hide it, but unfortunately there wasn’t a turtleneck alternative to covering an ill-placed sun hickey.
I know my experiences as a redhead are not unique – my freckled friends across the country share these same privileges and perils. Our commonalities create an unspoken bond and unconditional respect between us. “Hey, ginger,” I’ll yell after a redheaded stranger on the street. They’ll “Hey, ginger” me back like we’ve known each other our entire lives.
After all, all of us gingers know, once you go fire, you burn with desire.