SFTH, (c) 2009 by Melanie Tatum. All rights reserved.

You might have noticed that I’m not a brunette. Some people might call me a strawberry blonde; I’m not one of them. I am in fact a redhead.

So what does that mean; well, it means that from the time I was born I’ve been stared at, laughed at, grabbed at, tugged at, mocked, admired, insulted, complimented, copied and fetishized. That does things to a person.

Red hair, of course, comes from a recessive gene, and in my family it is extremely recessive. My mother is the oldest of 10; my father is the ninth of 10. So of all my dozens of aunts and uncles and cousins, who else besides me displays this particular gene? NO ONE. And amongst my classmates, were there any other copper-haired children with whom I could commiserate? NO. There was no one but me.

Because I looked so different from everyone else, everyone else looked at me. ALWAYS, there was someone looking at me. I never lacked for attention—that also meant, unfortunately, that I couldn’t get away with anything. EVER. So much for my life of crime.

And of course there was the name-calling, and the taunting, and the guy who sat behind me in history class and amused his friends on cold winter days by warming his hands over my head.

I was seventeen the first time someone asked me if my color was real. “OF COURSE it’s real—who the fuck would do this to themselves on purpose?”

But as I grew up, I began realizing some of the advantages of my hair. For one, museums around the world are filled with images of women who kinda look like me. Titian feels like a close personal friend. These days, so does Rubens, but never mind that.

For another, quite a few people seem to think that I’m, well, a little, um, hot? Now, the flip side of that coin is that I’m often considered easy.

There was this guy once who, in an effort to get me to go out with him, told me the following joke: “What’s the mating call of a blonde? ‘Oh I’m so drunk!’ What’s the mating call of a brunette? ‘Ok guys, all the blondes are gone.’ What’s the mating call of a redhead? ‘NEXT.’”

Believe it or not, I did go out with him, but only long enough to make him insecure about the size of his penis.

And then in my acting career, my hair has gotten me a lot of auditions. Directors love me, costumers love me, lighting designers REALLY love me. The bad news is, I’m usually asked to read the role of the whore. Of course, that might be the tits as much as anything else.

And then the best thing of all? The red-headed temper. I CAN BE AS ANGRY AS I WANT, and no one will call me on it. No one will tell me that maybe I should calm down—they know better! Anger is expected of me! A lot of times, all I have to do is look at someone the wrong way, and they shit themselves. It’s awesome! Sometimes I scare people without meaning to, which is unfortunate, but I can live with it.

So on the whole, I’d say that my hair has been a net positive. Growing up with it was completely miserable, but it made me tough, reinforced my spine. Being stared at constantly can be exhausting, but at least I’ve never had to fight for attention, or felt invisible.

That’s changing, though, because ready or not, my red hair—is going away. And I still haven’t completely come to terms with what that means. What happens when no one knows I’m a redhead but me?

It’ll be nice not to be considered a slut anymore, but after having so much attention for so long, how am I going to handle basically disappearing? And what about my temper? Am I going to have to start being sweet to people?

Of course, there is one very obvious solution…but I don’t see it happening. First off, I visit a hairdresser maybe three or four times a year, tops. I’m just not in the habit of spending hours of my life getting my roots touched up. And even if I were willing to put in the time and the effort, you know as well as I do that no one will ever be able to match my original color—though I’ve certainly seen some bitches try.

And speaking of—I have something to say to those of you not born with this color who attempt to adopt it as your own—who want all the advantages of this hair without having endured the pain that comes with it. Without having EARNED IT.

Drop the dye bottle. Shut the fuck up, and sit the fuck down. Which, also, happens to be what I’ll do right now. Thanks for listening.