It's Not Easy Being Ginge

Kermit actually has no idea how easy he has it. “It’s not easy being green”?? Try being ginger my froggy friend. Then you’ll have something to complain about.

The fact that he and Elphaba (from the musical 'Wicked') form the smallest of minorities means that rather than being maligned and ridiculed, they have become revered. Not so for us red heads. The Ginger Army is big enough to suggest a threat, so we remain the enemy to those less follicly-aflame.

In the UK, those with red hair have been the subject of ridicule for many, many years. A quick google search suggests there’s absolutely no reason why we have become the subject of such hatred other than because we are a minority, but there’s evidence it stems back further than the 15th century: “Those whose hair is red, of a certain peculiar shade, are unmistakably vampires.” (The Malleus Malefacarum, a 1486 treatise on witches).

There have even been comedy sketches on television dedicated to the cause, which perhaps culminated in the infamous South Park episode where Cartman declared “gingers do not have souls”. It seems we have not progressed much in the past 500+ years. At school we’re subjected to taunts of carrot-top, freckle-face and the label ‘ginge’ has become an incredibly derogatory term. Much the same as any sort of bullying, it makes no real sense at all.

But the upshot of all this historic hatred is that the perpetrators of such insults have no idea what they are doing. There is a reason us redheads are known for our feistiness. It’s because they have made us this way. We were born fighting. We’ve never known any different. And now our ginger / auburn / titian tresses are a symbol of our solidarity.

Now instead of the South Park facebook invention “Kick a Ginger Day”, there’s actually a “Kiss a Ginger Day” (12th January in case anyone wants to know, and I’m happy to accept belated offerings…)

Every five weeks I perform the necessary ritual required to maintain my lurid locks.

No, I don’t sacrifice a chicken, nor do I fly through the night and feed off the blood of fair maidens. I purchase 3 bottles of hair dye (I have lots of very thick hair) and spend 45 minutes looking like I’ve dunked my head in marmalade in order to eliminate the strands of grey which have clearly been sent as part of a hate campaign from those blessed blondes and brunettes who feel threatened.

I am, undoubtedly, a proud redhead. After all, the hair detracts from the whale-like waistline, the height deficiency, and the speccy four-eyes labels I am also adorned with.

Contrary to recent reports, there is no scientific evidence that we reds are a dying breed, but we are definitely a dyeing one – fiercely proud of our manes, and united in our stance, we will not sacrifice ourselves to the tortures of time.

I even have the ultimate accessory in an Irish setter. I’ve lost count of the number of times strangers have stopped us in the street to point out that the dog and I “match” as though it will be a complete revelation to me. It’s usually a dumb blonde…