But as such, I've enjoyed the inadvertent social experiment of changing my outside appearance and seeing how people treat me differently. I happen to believe-- and I think there's quite a lot of research supporting this-- that a large portion of how we perceive the world is directly related to how the world perceives us. And of course, it's not anywhere near an exact science. There are so many variables in perception and people and opinion and mood etc... So I recognize I offer these observations through the extremely biased filter of my own perception.
It all began in the summer of 2008 back when I was sales associate at Banana Republic. I was approached by a handsome, well-dressed man with flowing hair.
grady: so I'm a stylist. I'm new to the area, and I'm looking for new clients.
me: oh, I don't think I'd be interested. can I interest you in some chinos or a banana republic credit card?
grady: I'm just doing free cut and colors.
me: really, free cuts?
grady: yeah, here's my card. gimme a call.
me: sure!
So I called. I had pretty short caramely blonde hair at the time. My "omigod, I'm in Europe and I just broke up with my boyfriend, so I'm gonna chop off ALL my hair" do was growing out and I'd been looking a little Owen Wilson . . .
Which, while it suits him, is a surprisingly heinous look on me, especially as it grows out. So I agreed. The moment I sat down in Grady's chair, he said in his charmingly subtle Southern accent:
grady: you. are a redhead.
me: what? (is he delusional? or colorblind. at least color deficient... what is it red/green? omg, is my hair green??!)
grady: you are a redhead! let me make you a redhead!
me: oh, I don't think so.
I am notoriously low maintenance when it comes to my hair. I don't want to straighten it. I don't want to curl it or style it. I don't like to put "product" in it. The last thing I want is to have to go and dye it every two months in order to not look ombre (though ombre hair is kind of in now, right?) I was able to fight off his ginger advances for an entire year. But finally, the following summer, I sat down in the chair and I said the words he'd been waiting for:
me: ok, I'm ready.
grady: to be a redhead?!
me: I think so. . . let's do it. before I change my mind.
grady: you're gonna love it.
And I did. Instantly. At this time, I was working seventy hours a week, living alone, and eating terribly. I was short on friends, and had had a string of failed relationships. When I looked in the mirror, my hair, my eyes, my face were all grey. It was amazing how much my self-image turned around just in changing my hair color. Instead of seeing an overworked, pale skinned, dishwater brown haired, sad twenty-something, I was a redhead. My skin all of sudden glowed. It was alabaster instead of blue tinged and sallow. My eyes started to look green and snappy. It was like in that movie Pleasantville when all the colors came to life when everyone started having sex. Oh, life was so good.
And then, I noticed my inadvertent social experiment unfolding. All of a sudden, red haired men started to notice me. I'd see them watching me across the room. They started to approach me in bars or in the grocery store and give me awkward compliments. And yes, this extra attention could very well have come from my sudden burst of confidence, but it was simultaneous with the redding of the hair. I also quickly learned the best way to get rid of clingy red haired men (of which there are only a few; I find red haired men to be well-mannered in general) is to them I'm not a natural red. They get offended. I was called out at an Irish pub because my eyebrows weren't red. This gingerman was so disappointed in me. Like before, I was a novelty because I was just as much of a mutant (recessive trait, only something like 3% of Americans have red hair) as he was, and now I'm not. Misery loves company? Needless to say, the next time I went to the salon, I had Grady dye my eyebrows as well.
By this time I was waiting tables, and I noticed that there are certain men who are drawn to redheads, which is fine, and understandable. Unfortunately, there is no way to identify these men before the cycle below unfolds. They look like everyone else. But all men who love redheads have the same thought processes. Now an estimated 17% of these men never say anything, thank God. They just look a little too long, and you can feel it. The other 84% hit step one. Approximately 63% make it to step three, and then a very special 32% make it all the way to step three. Behold:
step one:
man: Have I ever told you I have a thing for redheads?
me: uh. no. um. heh.
man: yes, my sister/daughter/ex-wife/niece/dog/love-of-my-life has red hair.
me: oh that's so nice.
step two:
man: you look like that one girl/you could be her sister/daughter... who is it?
me: I couldn't say...
man: name of tv/film/commercial character who has red hair
me: ohh, thank you. she's so pretty.
step three:
man: I'll just, huh huh, call you Donna/Wilma/redhead name
me: oh... great!
And now years later (I think it's been three or four years), I've noticed that my self-concept has caught up with my actual appearance. I now know that I am a redhead. And I do feel a certain community with other redheads. On Ash Wednesday this year, I accidentally went to the school service at the Catholic church, and there were soo many cute little Catholic kids in uniforms. And I found myself falling in love a little with all the awkward little redheaded kids. I was actually plunging face first into a little fantasy about maybe having a gingerbaby of my own one day before I realized that as far as I know there is not a single thread of a gingergene in my family. Bollocks. And I now have a special love and affinity for redheads on tv/movies/commercials. So, I'll end with my favorite redhead: Christina Hendricks.
In the words of Roger Sterling in Mad Men (which I love), "I like redheads. Their mouths are like a drop of strawberry jam in a glass of milk.” So odd, and true and beautiful.
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