something about strawberry jam

It should be no secret: I have red hair. Copper, as I've learned to describe it in the salon. Also not a secret: I was not born a ginger. I was actually convinced, to become a redhead. I have always identified as blonde. Which I guess is strange, because my natural hair color is a lot closer to brown at this point. Sort of an ashy light brown. But it was platinum when I was really young, and bleached easily in the sun throughout my childhood/adolescence, so my super long hair stayed pretty blonde. And you know, in those delicate tween years when I was forming my self-image, I was blonde, and that stuck.

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.

--

something about that city

A few weeks ago, I took a long-weekend trip to New York City. I had been to New York twice before, but this was my first time to go by myself. I should say: I am a midwest girl. I have spent my entire life in the midwest, except for a couple of trips here and there, and one study abroad semester in Europe. I do fancy myself at least a little bit worldly, and I have a pretty well-developed sense of adventure but nevertheless, I was a little nervous about navigating it all by myself. And people are always talking about how rough New York is. That being said, I really had no solid plan for the weekend even the night before I left. The purpose of the trip was a two-day interview for a Master's program a half hour outside of what I felt very cool to be calling, "The City." I had two different options for a place to stay, and a play I wanted to catch on Thursday evening in Manhattan.

 

I flew into Laguardia at about 11am on Thursday, and I didn't have any solid plans until the next morning. So far so good. I quickly found myself on the M60 bus to Manhattan. As we traveled west, I watched the woman across the bus from me bantering with her beautiful daughter, and it was at least a half hour before I realized that I was the only white girl on the bus and anywhere nearby on the street. Looking out and seeing the word Harlem, I had that impulse, like midwest girls who grow up in 99% white high schools and go to 99% white colleges do, that maybe I should get off the bus. But I didn't. Eventually, I told myself that whenever Pretty Mom and Daughter got off the bus, I'd follow. As we disembarked together a few minutes later, I asked for directions, and she happily gave them to me. And I was off. I passed a beautiful sunny day in the city trying not to look like a tourist (impossible, considering the hulking backpack I had in tow, but I think I gave the judging New Yorkers a proverbial run for their money).

 

That evening I was on my way to the place I had decided to stay-- a half hour outside of The City (I'm getting cooler every time I type it). I was taking a train from Union Square to Grand Central, which is just a few stops. Shortly after I sat down, a handsome bearded hipster dressed all in black sat down next to me. We both smelled vomit. We both simultaneously located said vomit on the floor in front of us and made eye contact.

 

dude on train: mmm, almost home.
me: what?
dude: I can tell I'm almost home when I smell that.
me: oh. gross.
dude: guess you don't live nearby.
me: nope.

 

I'm totally flattered that he actually thought I lived in The City, when I think my coral trench coat (everyone, seriously wears all black!) gives me away but I think this may be his intention.

 

dude: I'm an actor.
me: of course you are.
dude: what does that mean?
me: I don't know. everyone's an actor around here.
dude: where you getting off?
me: grand central.
dude: really? we just passed it.
me: seriously? you're messing with me.
dude: no, we just passed it.
me: well, I'd better go. nice to meet you.
dude: come to my bar tomorrow night!
me: maybe. I'm Arika.
dude: I'm Nick.
me: well, it was nice to meet you. bye.

 

And I'm lost. I ask another New Yorker for how to get on the train to take me back south, cause I accidentally panicked and got on an express train that ended me up at 86th or something. She removes her ipod headphones and gives me friendly, clear, concise directions. Thank you! You're welcome, good luck.

After the interview, I take the train back into Grand Central. The girl sitting next to me, who also had an interview for the same Masters program spills her orange juice in the aisle and as the train moves it stripes down the aisle. It will be a sticky mess. We disembark and find a spot against the wall to wait for the friends we're meeting there. (Why isn't there more seating in Grand Central Station?) I realize, a full seven and a half minutes later that I don't have my phone. I've left it on the train. So, I leave aforementioned hulking back pack with a person I met the day before (also a New Yorker) and run to the train. It is still there! But there is nobody in it. I run down the side of the train. It is completely empty. And then! At about the fifteenth car, there is a man cleaning the car, holding a large trash bag. He has a lazy eye. A really lazy eye. I knock on the door, and he opens it. I tell him I've left my phone on the train. He asks which car and I tell him I can't remember. He says he's been in the front cars, and didn't see anything. I ask him if I can look in the rest. He says sure. As I go in the next car, I see the striped orange juice aisle. And my phone is sitting forlorn on the seat, right where I left it. I thank the man profusely, effusively, midwesternerly (yes, that's a word now). I want to hug him. He speaks for about the length of three sentences and I don't follow what he's saying at all. He's saying words I think, maybe even phrases, but they don't add up to a whole. But I listen carefully and nod. My brow furrows to show him that I am interested in what he is saying, despite the fact that it is completely incomprehensible. I give a little bow as I spew a few last thank you's to him, and I go back to meet my companion who is sitting there with my bag that contains everything I have in New York.

So in conclusion, from the information outlined above, I have to conclude that the whole stereotype of New Yorkers being mean is just that: a stereotype. Nobody stole or tried to steal my money. People looked me in the eye and smiled at me sometimes before I smiled at them. People asked me if I needed help. And when I was in trouble, New Yorkers bailed me out. You don't have to be in the midwest to meet decent people.