One afternoon, while strolling through the park with my son, a cyclist shouted, “Check out that carrot top!” If I had more time, I might have pointed out that carrot tops are actually green. However, the man was already speeding away, leaving me with little chance for a witty comeback.
Every outing with my son seems to invite a stream of comments about his beautiful, curly red hair. The remarks vary widely, from the innocent to the downright rude. “He’ll be a handful!” is a common one, along with jokes about how redheads are “trouble.” The comment that irks me the most, however, is the disguised question: “Where did that red hair come from?”
When I was in junior high, my own hair, though not as vibrant as my son’s, earned me a fair share of teasing. Initially, when strangers questioned us about my son’s hair, my husband would shoot me a knowing glance as if to say, “Well, look at her hair!” But that didn’t stop the inquiries. Eventually, he tried to brush it off with humor: “Me, obviously.” That tactic didn’t work either, leading him to share impromptu lessons in genetics: “It’s all about chromosome 16.” My more straightforward answer was, “It’s a recessive gene from both of us.”
Despite our efforts, the questions persisted, prompting me to share family anecdotes: “His hair is just like my mom’s was when she was a child. Look at those baby pictures!” This seemed to satisfy people because they were looking for a way to understand how my son’s hair could be so distinct from ours.
Yet, I find these explanations unsatisfactory. I’d prefer not to provide a family history of hair colors or delve into genetics while trying to navigate the grocery store with a three-year-old in tow. Sometimes, I wish I could just say “my partner” and move on, but while that would be amusing to me, it wouldn’t teach my son anything meaningful about navigating social interactions.
Perhaps the reason I feel uneasy about these responses is that I shouldn’t be the one responding. Jackie Colliss Harvey, in her book Red: A History of the Redhead, highlights a vital issue: “Growing up as a redhead, it sometimes felt as if the last person my red hair belonged to was me — the person from whose scalp it sprang.”
The people making comments aren’t addressing my son directly; they’re talking about him as if he isn’t there. If they recognized his presence, they might simply say, “Your curly red hair is wonderful!” Yet, I can’t recall anyone outside our family offering him such a compliment.
Now that my son can engage in conversation, I’ve been letting him respond on his own. His comeback, “No, it’s green,” is a testament to children’s creativity. Depending on his mood and the frequency of inquiries, his tone can range from playful to defiant.
This response is perfect; it asserts his individuality and demands engagement. Most people quickly play along, saying, “Yes, it’s such a lovely green!” Some clueless individuals have even speculated about colorblindness, which is amusing since my son can identify all colors quite well. He often adds that his hair is now blue, further confusing the well-meaning questioners.
In conclusion, the comments about my son’s red hair serve as a reminder of how society often overlooks individuals in favor of stereotypes. Ideally, these interactions could foster more positivity and appreciation for what makes each person unique.
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