Well, folks, The Great Haircut Wars of ’09 have left me feeling wrung out, like a limp rag, and that’s before I’ve even been anywhere NEAR the hairdresser. So, in a bid to post something that’s NOT directly related to my hair, I thought I’d do The Friday Five. But The Friday Five this week was a bunch of really boring questions about chocolate, and seriously, why would anyone care whether I know how chocolate is made or not? (I don’t, by the way. I don’t know how anything is made. And I don’t care. Cooking is why God made Other People.)
I still wanted to be lazy answer questions rather than write an entry with, you know, actual thoughts and ideas in it, though, so I decided to turn to my old friend Google Analytics, and answer some of the questions people have been asking the Internet recently, and which have led them to this here blog. For instance:
Can I wear black to a christening?
Well, I did. I wear black to absolutely everything, though, so I’m probably the wrong person to ask. My one piece of advice to you about attending a christening, however, is this: before I went to one, everyone told me that it would be “dressy, but not as dressy as a wedding.” Naturally, then, it turned out to be as dressy as a wedding. Maybe this was just some kind of freak occurrence, and not the norm for these events (I wouldn’t know, being a complete and utter heathen), but most people were dressed to the nines. This made it a lot of fun, actually, because there’s really nothing I enjoy more than looking at what other people are wearing.
My answer to this question, then: yes, black is fine, as long as you make it a “happy” black, not a sad black. Like, maybe lay off the veil and gloves, and use some colourful accessories to make it clear that you’re not at a funeral. Also: you’re being given the opportunity to dress up – seize it with both hands, my friend!
Do redheads have souls?
(Note: this is now one of my top search terms. Which really makes me wonder about humanity, to be honest.)
My answer: Don’t be silly, of course redheads don’t have souls. Redheads are another race entirely: we are, in fact, a little-known offshoot of the vampires, and we survive by drinking the blood of people who type dumb-ass questions into Google. I’d sleep with one eye open tonight if I were you. I’d also refrain from breeding if at all possible because… well, because the world has enough idiots, we don’t really need any more.
Is it normal to feel your pulse in your stomach?
Ooh, medical questions, I love me some medical questions! Actually, no, I don’t, and I have this to say to you, pulse-stomach-searcher: NEVER CONSULT DOCTOR GOOGLE ON THESE MATTERS. Doctor Google is not a good doctor. He is a wicked, evil doctor, and his answers will cause you to lie awake at night in a cold sweat, wondering who to leave your shoes to when you “go”.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say here is that the Internet is not a doctor and neither am I. (Note: Neither is Karl Kennedy from Neighbours, but you wouldn’t know it.) If it makes you feel any better, though, I last felt my pulse in my stomach in November 2007 - I actually thought I was about to give birth to an alien at the time – and I’m still alive. Take from that what you will.
Do you spend a lot of money on fashion?
Yes. Do you?
What is the most times a dog has peed?
Nineteen. No, I’m being serious, it was nineteen times. It was in 1978. Seriously, dude, what did you expect here? And why so vague? Do you want to know how many times a dog has peed in the space of an hour? A day? Its life? Does it have to be a particular breed of dog? Boy or girl? Ask and ye shall receive! Or actually, maybe not in this case, because honestly, who’s counting?
If you want to know how many times MY DOG has peed, well, I can’t tell you that in general terms, but I can tell you how many times he has peed INSIDE THE HOUSE this week: three times. Yes, three times. Mostly on his own bed (!) but sometimes on the radiator. He does it when we go to the gym. We don’t know why, because here’s the thing: he doesn’t do it when we leave the house to go anywhere else. Only when we go to the gym. What does this mean? What is he trying to tell us here? Who knows. (Oh! Maybe Google does! Must go and check…)
Anyway, these were just five of the questions my referrers have asked me recently. If you’d like to submit your own question to “Ask Amber”, be my guest. Just make it something I’m likely to know the answer to. You know, none of that “What’s the square root of 8.768?” rubbish, because I can’t help you with that.
Tagged Outfits, red hair, redhead, rubin
Despite having been born with red hair, I’ve actually been pretty lucky in that I’ve never been physically attacked because of my universally reviled appearance. And come to think of it, although my mum got a lot of “don’t worry, she might grow out of it!” comments when I was a small baby, few people have been rude enough – or brave enough – to tell me to my face that they think my hair is ugly, either. Or, indeed, to kick me on the ass because of it.
(Note: one time in the shopping mall, a teenager did grab me by the collar, thrust his acne-ridden face into mine and scream, “You’re SO fucking ugly!” at me. I don’t know if that was because of my hair specifically, or just a more general observation, though, so I can’t really count it.)
No, most people tend to go for the more subtle, but just as offensive, method of telling me that hey, I’m not bad looking “for a redhead”. Or they’ll try to “comfort” me by reassuring me that I’m not actually a redhead at all, “it’s more of an auburn colour!” (This actually REALLY offends me because I don’t WANT to be “more of an auburn colour”, thanks – I’m happy with the colour I have and I don’t really need people trying to convince me I’m delusional, ya know?) Or, the all-time winner: “it’s OK on you, I guess, but when I see men with red hair I’m physically sick!” Yeah. Good job I’m not planning to breed then, or my offspring might really upset you…
So I’ve been lucky. Much luckier than the kid in this story, anyway, who was assaulted by a group of 13 teenagers, all taking part in “National Kick a Ginger Day”.
Let’s just take a minute to digest that. National. Kick. A. Ginger. Day. Doesn’t that sound fun? I mean, we already know that redheads have no soul so it stands to reason they have no feelings either, and therefore it’s perfectly acceptable to abuse them – whether physically or verbally – and expect them to just take the joke, isn’t it?
Because this is the thing. Almost every time I indulge in a rant about the hatred directed towards people with red hair in this country (or, in this case, in Canada, which surprised me, because it’s normally the UK that abuses its “gingers”), some bright spark comes along and tells me to “lighten up” or “get a sense of humour”.
A quote from the article I linked to above:
“Student Ken Logel said: “I have a few buddies with red hair, you just kind of kick them lightly just as a joke but when it gets carried away that’s not cool.”
No, that’s not “cool”, is it? I mean, a “light kick” is just fine, obviously. Because it’s SO FUNNY when people call you ugly and maybe leave you bruised and battered because of the colour of your hair, isn’t it? And that’s not AT ALL like abusing someone for the colour of their skin, or their religion or race, now, is it? On no, my mistake: IT IS. It is the same. And every time I write about prejudice against redheads, and compare it to prejudice against black people, or Jewish people, or < insert abused mimority group here > I’m told that I’m doing a disservice to victims of racism because what I’m talking about is SO MUCH LESS IMPORTANT, and is a JOKE, and doesn’t actually matter because for crying out loud it’s JUST HAIR.
Yes, it is. But now people are actually being physically attacked because of it. Now there are Facebook groups inciting violence against people with a certain colour of hair. How is this different from inciting violence against people with a certain colour of skin? Oh yeah: it isn’t. It really isn’t. And now I find myself wondering how many more attacks like this there will have to be before people start to admit that no, it’s really not cool. It’s not cool to beat people up for ANY REASON, be it skin colour, race, religion, or even hair colour. The fact that people think the first three are unacceptable (which they are) and the last is “just a joke” absolutely boggles my mind, it really does.
(Oh, and the “you can dye your hair - people can’t change the colour of their skin” argument? I SHOUDLN’T HAVE TO dye my hair to avoid abuse, any more than people with black skin should be forced to try and lighten it, or hide themselves away. People just shouldn’t abuse others, end of story.)
I’m glad to see that the police seem to be taking this incident seriously at least. But I can’t help wondering how much more of an outcry there would be if there was a “National Kick a Black Day” or a “National Kick a Jew Day”.
(Thanks to Emma for sending me the link to the story)
Ginger and proud
Tagged ginger, Gingerism, red hair, redhead
So, yesterday I went to the hairdresser and had a big ol’ chunk cut off my hair.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry, this isn’t going to be one of those entries, where I end up screaming and crying that OMG, it’s SO UNFAIR, and I HATE MY LIFE. No, this is actually a good hairdressing story – or as good as a hairdressing story can get for me considering I’m still growing out a MULLET, obviously.
Anyway, as you know, after my last brush with hairdressing hell, I had sworn to never let a pair of scissors near my head again, and to just let it grow until it got so long I had to employ a team of small children to walk behind me at all times, carrying it. I believe the name “Rapunzel” was mentioned. And the thing is, I totally intended to stick to this plan, but a few weeks ago I suddenly realised the plan was fatally flawed, because while it is true that the front part of my hair has, indeed, been growing, SO HAS THE BACK. At the same speed. So if I just let it grow I would basically never be free of the Mullet. I’d just have a super-long mullet instead. Yeah.
Gradually, then, the unwelcome truth became evident: if I ever wanted to hold my head up in public again, I would have to just bite the bullet and submit to having large chunks cut off the back of my hair every few weeks, so that eventually the front and back would meet in the middle, so to speak, and I would have “normal” hair again. Maybe.
Well, for the last few weeks, each day I have faced an almighty battle not to just pick up a pair of scissors and hack it all off myself. It is THAT BAD. And yesterday morning I woke up, looked in the mirror and realised that I could not tolerate it ONE DAY LONGER, and that if I couldn’t get it cut right that very day, I would be doing it myself. Given that I am the clumsiest woman alive, the second option didn’t sound good even to me, and so it was that I found myself in the car and driving towards the only salon I knew might be able to squeeze me in on a Saturday afternoon, repeating the mantra, “I will not ask for a fringe, I will NOT ask for a fringe” over and over again. In fact, I repeated that mantra so many times I’m actually amazed I didn’t just walk into the salon and shout “NO FRINGE!” at them.
I didn’t, though. And they told me, yes, they could fit me in, so, with fast-beating heart, I sat myself down with the stylist and told her the tale of The Mullet, after which she moved in for a closer look at the offending hair.
“OH MY GOD!” shouted the stylist, jumping back as if stung. “This is… this is a MESS!”
Now, I have to admit, I felt ever so slightly smug about this reaction. The thing is, no one has ever really believed me about how bad this haircut was. For the past two months, I’ve mostly tied it back, cunningly trying to disguise the fact that I now looked a lot like Billy Ray Cyrus, when viewed in a certain light. And, you know, there is the fact that I’m a known drama queen, and I just know most people have listened to my tale of woe and thought, “yeah right, whatever. Bet it looks exactly the same.” But it was NOT the same. And this New Stylist had instantly seen it for what it was.
“There’s a really big difference between the length at the front and the length at the back,” she said, staring at the hair as if it might bite her. “It’s almost like…”
“Like a mullet,” I said. “Yes, I know: you can say it.”
“Yeah,” said the hairdresser, warming to her theme, “But the thing is, I bet even YOU don’t realise how bad this is. I mean, you can’t see the back of your head. Seriously, YOU SHOULD SEE THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD!”
I just nodded at this, as if I hadn’t spent hours in the bathroom over the past few weeks, holding up my little Sephora mirror to try and view the back of my head. And then weeping. And drinking.
“I mean, I’d have hated to have seen this when it was first done,” continued the stylist, who was actually starting to enjoy herself just a little bit too much at this point, really. ”That must’ve looked TERRIBLE.”
Then she tried to persuade me to let her cut it to shoulder length. “It won’t fix it,” she said, “But it’ll make it look less like a … well, you know.”
Readers, I held firm. I know she was right, but I was nervous enough about being back in The Chair (“You must be terrified!” said the hairdresser cheerfully as she started snipping. “I would be!”) without adding the pressure of a Dramatic Change into the mix. So we compromised, and she cut it to just a couple of inches under my shoulders. This actually still feels like a Dramatic Change to me (when I brush it I get that horrible sinking feeling when the brush suddenly encounters air and I’m all, “OMG WHERE IS MY HAIR?!”), but I realised a long time ago that when you have long hair, no one ever notices the fact that you suddenly have four inches less of it than you used to. This theory was proven last night when we went to visit my parents and neither of them noticed, even when I swished my head around ostentatiously. They just thought I was having a fit or something.
Anyway, it’s still going to take months to grow out the mullet completely, but the point is, I have at last had a haircut that didn’t make me cry afterwards, and I think this could be a turning point in the career of my hair. I feel like maybe the ancient curse has been broken, and there is new hope that the mullet may one day be defeated. And I was going to blow-dry it and style it all nice, then get Terry to take a picture of it, but then I thought, “Why do that when I can just sit around on my ass letting it dry naturally and get all frizzy first?” So I did. Then I remembered that when Terry takes photos of me, they generally end up looking something like this:
 windy! He took this while we were out walking the dog today. “Take a picture of my hair,” I said. “Try not to make me look like a lunatic,” I said. Gah. So it looks like this is about as good as it’s going to get in terms of photos of The Hair:
There were others, but I swear to God, I had my eyes closed and was frowning in every. single. one. So, um, yeah.
Maybe I’ll ask for a fringe next time?*
(*joking!)
Tagged hair, haircut, red hair, redhead
Q: Why do redheads take the pill?
A: Wishful thinking.
Q: What do you call a good looking man with a redhead?
A: A hostage.
Q: What do you call a redhead with large breasts?
A: A mutant.
Stop me if you’ve heard any of these before, by the way. I discovered them all by chance, last week on Facebook, where I stumble upon a hitherto untapped source of redhead hatred. “Red hair sucks – I’d rather die!” is the name of the group that initially caught my eye, but a quick search revealed dozens of others, including “Redheads are gingers and they have no soul”, “If you have red hair I’m sorry, but we just can’t be friends” and the short but sour “Redheads suck!” Nice.
Of course, I’ve always known that if assholes could fly, the Internet would be an airport, but it was still a little worrying to discover that prejudice is alive, well and thriving on one of the web’s biggest social networking sites. Facebook is going through a bit of a “media’s darling” phase at the moment, but while most people are probably using it to stalk old school friends and play Tetris Tournament when they
should be working (I know I am), others are apparently using it to try and incite hatred towards that much maligned social group – the gingers.
The problem is that there’s no arguing with these people. Believe me, I tried. I sent a message to one of the more offensive posters on the “Red hair sucks” group. “Hmhmhmhmhm,” came back the answer. We’re
clearly dealing with a powerful set of intellects here, which is kind of reassuring: they’ll never prove that we “have no soul” if they can’t even string a coherent sentence together. “Am kind of dumb,” my idiot correspondent admitted in a follow-up message. Well, you said it…
The other problem with all of this, of course, is that if you are a “ginger”, you’re not allowed to be offended by it. To admit to feeling even a little bit hurt by such overt hatred is to admit to having no sense of humour, because most of this drivel – not to mention the teasing and negativity redheads get in real life – tries to masquerade as “humour”. It’s funny, you see? “Geez, lighten up!” they’ll tell you if you so much as raise an eyebrow at the “hilarious” jokes. “Stop taking things personally! You have to be able to laugh at yourself, you
know – especially if you’re a ginger!” Boom boom! I’d imagine blondes probably feel much the same way about the “dumb blonde” jokes that float around: funny, sure – as long as they’re not directed at you.
As “funny” and “lighthearted” as you may believe it is, though, there’s a serious side to it all, too. How many little redheaded girls (and boys) are growing up believing that they’re fundamentally unlovable and ugly, just because of all of these idiotic comments and oh-so-funny “jokes”.
Is it really OK to make fun of a whole sector of society and call it “humour”, I wonder? Or is it only OK when it’s not about you?
(Note: this is actually a column I wrote yesterday for Dollymix, but I figured I’d post it here, too, seeing as this site still gets so many hits from people who’ve Googled phrases like, “If my unborn child turns out to have red hair, can I kill it?” and the like. Asshats.)
Tagged red hair, redhead
… to all of the people (the many, many people) who’ve been finding this blog lately after googling some variation of “worried that baby will be ginger” or “chances of having ginger haired baby” or “can I dye my baby’s hair if it is ginger?” (No, I’m seriously not kidding on that last one):
Please, do the world a favour: just don’t breed. It’s way too risky. We have enough stupid people in the world already, thanks: we don’t need the likes of you diluting the gene pool any further.
I mean, seriously, if this isn’t evidence that people should have to apply for a license to breed (and pass all kinds of anti-stupidity tests along the way), I don’t know what is. And I really hope that these people don’t have red-haired babies: not through any concern for the sheer embarrassment of the parents (I mean, GOD, imagine having to be seen with it!), but out of real concern for the children who might be born to people like this.
It absolutely terrifies me that there are people out there who would seriously consider dyeing a newborn’s hair because they don’t think it looks nice. It frightens the crap out of me that there are people worried that they might not be able to love their child if it’s a redhead. Poor kids. What a start in life, eh.
I’m being serious: I don’t think these people should be allowed to breed. They really don’t deserve children.
That is all.
Tagged red hair, redhead
Hey peeps. Tonight I’d like to talk about how hideously disfigured I am. No, this is not a digging-for-compliments exercise or even a self-indulgent entry focusing on the fascinating subject of how insecure I am about the way I look – I’m way too old for all that jazz. No, I actually am hideously disfigured, and do you know how I know? Why, because the good ladies over at the Handbag.com forums told me so, of course. Repeatedly.
Actually, let’s be fair: they weren’t talking about me in particular, and I’m sure if they were to meet me they’d all be quick to assure me that, of course, my hair is perfectly lovely, and not at all the shade of red – sorry, “ginger” – that so offends their eyes. Yes, folks, we’re talking about hair, here. Specifically, red hair – or “ginger” hair as they like to call it. Why, hair just like mine in fact! Isn’t it awful? Don’t you just pray that your children, should you have them, are never cursed with this particular disfigurement? Lots of people do (pray, that is), and who can blame them?
The discussion I’m talking about was actually pretty tame compared to some of the ones I’ve seen, and some of the comments I’ve heard. Comments like, “Oh, don’t worry, she might grow out if it! It might turn blonde!” (Said to my mother when I was a babe in arms) and, “Tell me, Amber, do you ever worry that your children might inherit It?” (No, do you ever worry yours will inherit your complete lack of intellect?)
The thread in question starts off with … well, with a question. A “very serious” and deeply distressing question. Our protagonist is worried that she might one day have a red haired baby. I know! I mean, aren’t we all! She’s been lucky so far: neither she nor her partner have the dreaded Curse, but – and here’s the kicker – his mum (who hopefully never reads Handbag.com) does, and so did her gran. I mean, you can see their dilemma, can’t you? They could have a redhaired baby! In fact, no, let’s not mince our words here, let’s say what we mean: their child could be an ugly-ass ginger!
Now, personally I’d just get sterilised and adopt, no question. That’s certainly what I’m going to do, because, God, I’m ginger, and so was my gran! And my Great-Gran! I mean, any child of mine would surely be doomed, and I may as well be honest: when I tell people I don’t want children, what I actually mean is “I couldn’t be so cruel as to bring another redhead into the world”.
(Y’all get that I’m being sarcastic here, don’t you? OK, just checking…)
It gets worse, though. Rather than simply suggesting sterliistaion, the women on the handbag forums set about very earnestly working out what the odds might be of this poor girl having “a ginger”. They come to the conclusion that it’s probably around 4:1. The original poster decides she can live with that. What she would have done had the odds been higher is anyone’s guess.
It doesn’t end there, though. Once everyone has shared their relief that our protagonist probably isn’t at as much risk as she might have thought, someone comes up with the idea – and this is a stroke of pure genius, people – that in order to avoid having a baby with red hair, you could first of all have GENETIC TESTING to determine whether you carry the mutant gene. If you do, then presumably your way is clear – you don’t breed.
God, I wish someone had come up with this sooner. OK, I wouldn’t be here, but on the bright side, neither would any of the other “ginger mingers”. We could have a world totally absent of redheads! Oooh! Oooh! I know what we could do! We could make it so that only people who have the type of colouring we deem to be “attractive” – people with blue eyes and blonde hair, say – were allowed to breed, so we had a whole society of aesthetically pleasing people! Now, I know I’ve heard something like that before… Where was it? Never mind, I’m sure it’ll come to me…
(Right after this point was made, by the way? Someone else – someone who actually has red hair herself – posted asking if this type of testing can actually happen, because, and I quote: “I’d never forgive myself if I passed my red hair onto one of my kids.” I swear I’m not making this up.)
Now, I’m not a scientist. (I’ll wait while you stop reeling in shock at that one, shall I?), so I have no idea whether it’s possible for the miracle that is modern science to identify the “redhead gene” and thus rid the world of redheads. (We will be sure to slam the door on the way out.) The fact that supposedly intelligent women are even discussing this kind of idiocy on a public forum, though, leaves me gasping in horror at the depths of stupidity that some people will plumb.
The truly sad thing about all of this? This is about the fifth or sixth time I’ve seen this type of thread come up on a discussion forum, or even, as I’ve said, in normal conversation. Something I learned from a very early age is that people really don’t like redheads, and they’re not ashamed to say so, in the way that most people would probably think twice about voicing the same sentiment about, say, black people. I mean, just imagine it:
Original Poster:
“God, I’m so worried: my partner’s mum is black! What if our baby is black too, I couldn’t stand it!”
Other Posters:
“Oooh, that would be awful, but don’t worry, hun, the chances are slim, lol!”
Original Poster: “Thank God, for that! Imagine, a black baby – YUCK!”
Bright Spark: “You know, what you could do is you could be genetically tested to see if you carry The Gene that makes people black.”
Idiot Poster: “Can anyone tell me if that’s actually possible? You see, I am black and I would never forgive myself if I passed my black skin onto one of my kids!”
See, it would never happen, would it? No, that would be racist and unforgivable. It’s fine to say the same things about us redheads, though: for one, we have no feelings – none at all – and for two, we’re not a different race or anything. Hell, we’re just ugly. And we all know how much fun it is to hate ugly people!
For the record, I love my red hair, and always have – yes, even when people at school called me “traffic lights”. I wouldn’t change it, not even when it brings out the very worst, most prejudiced part of some people. And, you know, as a wise man once said: I can dye my oh-so-ugly red hair. These people will always be stupid.
I think I’m going to start up a new clothing line. It will consist mainly of t-shirts, and they’ll all say “RED AND PROUD”, or maybe “I’D RATHER BE RED THAN dead A F*****G MORON”. Stop me and buy one.
Pass the message on, people: the redheads will inherit the earth. And they’re angry.
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Tagged ginger, Gingerism, red hair, redhead
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