Last week, during downtime in her freshman CA class, Molly engaged in a vigorous defense of her eternal essence.
The instigators of this deep, philosophical debate were Trey Parker, Matt Stone and Molly’s mischievous pal who said, “If your mother’s a ginger, you don’t have a soul.”
South Park references aside, I’m here to defend my copper-haired, freckle-faced brethren.
We have souls, man, and back in the day we had street cred too.
We had whip smart comediennes like Lucille Ball and Carol Burnett; talented authors like Emily Dickinson and James Joyce and resourceful beauties like Tina Louise, the only castaway elegant enough to pack a full wardrobe of sexy evening gowns for a three-hour cruise.
Ask yourself this: in a comic strip full of cuties, who stole Charlie Brown’s heart? That’s right, the Little Red Haired Girl.
Back then redheads had pride. My sister Jenny, for instance, once won a Little Orphan Annie Look-Alike Contest and paraded all over Appleton on a float celebrating the carrot-topped moppet.
Today we have the Angry Ginger Kid, and a suspiciously coincidental announcement from Cryos, the world’s largest sperm bank, that it would no longer accept donations from red-haired men due to low demand.
It’s time to stand tall, my fellow redheads! Lift up those SPF50 covered chins, toss back those stringy copper curls, point those pale, freckled faces toward the sun and smile!
Remember the Titians! We have character! We have charisma! We have a mutation of gene MC1R on chromosome 16! But, mostly, we have soul!
Ruadh gu brath! Redheads forever! (or at least until our freakishly high levels of phomelanin fades.)
