When I went into my classroom, one of the other fifth years was at the window, roaring out at our classmate, “Oi! Ginger pubes!” When there was no reaction, he opened the window to scream louder. “Ginger pubes! Ginger pubes!” he called until the quiet student disappeared from sight. Disappointed, he turned around, saw me, and went pale.
“Not you! I wasn’t saying it about you!” Before I could open my mouth, the others spilled in, and the French teacher shouted at two lads who were in a scuffle. “Arrêt! Arrêt!”
I didn’t stand up for myself then. Over a decade later, about to become a mother for the first time, I felt more capable of snapping back, for the kicking child in my belly, more than for myself. At lunch with friends, they teased me about the potential of having a “ginge” baby. I said nothing at first but decided later that night to text the group and say, I really don’t like the phrase “ginge”, asking gently if they could stop using it, to say nothing of the rest of their insults.
Very close to birth, a woman asked me with a devilish smile what I would do if the child had red hair. At least she had afforded me that description, but I asked what she would expect me to do? A baby with red hair is not an unwanted litter of kittens to be brought to the river.
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Unfortunately, none of my children has red hair. I did not have to hold them in my arms and think, God, what am I going to do about having a child with red hair?
My parents, and my father in particular, have treated my hair with something close to worship. But sure, what else can parents of redheads do with us poor creatures? Even now, when I video-call him, the first thing he will say is, “Look at your hair!” and then he’ll pass the phone to my mother, and in the muffled movement of the phone I will hear him say to her, “Look at her hair, it’s magnificent.” He always described it as golden.
Maybe they have ginger-tinted glasses, but it made it even more confusing to me when I was sent out into the Irish public to be pelted with direct or indirect abuse because of my physical features. Irish people just take these things on the chin in the name of craic. Trophy head, choccy dip, shorty, speccy. If you have a distinct feature, you’re going to get it in the neck, and no matter what the reality is, it’s going to sting.
One day, a friend was telling me that his children were slagging his older son’s new “ginger” girlfriend. He was going to tell me a “ginger” joke as part of his anecdote. You don’t mind “ginger” jokes, do you? He was smart enough to ask. “I wouldn’t be mad about them,” I said, and the conversation wrapped up quickly.
The following day I was walking in St Anne’s Park. My hair was particularly long, reaching the small of my back. It is a dark red, unruly, with coils and waves and goldie bits. A woman, a total stranger, ran past me. “Your hair is gorgeous!” she turned to call at me, panting. I was confused and looked around before clocking that she was talking to me. “Thank you!” I called back.
When I tell people that I don’t like the word “ginger”, they smart. When a word is hissed at you with malice for your whole life, it takes on its own meaning, but those spurting it drill down on their position. My children seem to have embraced the teasing they get, even though none of them are redheads. My very blond son was given a gingerbread figure as a Kris Kindle present. I didn’t get it. They call me “Ginger” in school, he said. Maybe it’s just his association with me. He didn’t seem to mind.
My daughter has some copper tones in her brown hair, which, until recently, she has longed to eliminate. The mix of colours is beautiful, how it catches in the light. The other day at the kitchen table, she looked into my eyes. “What colour are your eyes? Oh my God, are they blue? That makes you a 10 out of 10 ginger!”
I laughed, with slight exasperation, thinking through my choice of battles with her and deciding that this appalling ranking system was not going to be one of them. She added, “A 10 out of 10 ginger is better than a 10 out of 10 blonde.”
I know my eyes are green, but I decide not to spoil the moment. My hawk-eyed, raven-haired seven-year-old decided she would. She put down her marker, stood between my legs, and inspected my irises closely.
“Your eyes are green,” delivering the bad news with wonderful bedside manner, her little hand on my shoulder. “Her eyes are green!” she relished correcting her big sister and going back to her drawing.
I asked my 14-year-old where that leaves me in the line-up.
“You’re still a 10 out of 10, Mam.”
I’ll take that.
