Fetish - some thoughts in redheads
When women born with fiery locks encounter one another, they sense a secret ribbon binding them together, akin to the one between soul mates. Any ginger will tell you that the curse and blessing erupting from her skull isn’t just ornamental, nor a marker of stigma. From the first time it irritates another person, the color becomes a part of her personality; generally the first tuft on a baby’s head takes care of this.
Reactions may vary: witch, muse, or a godlike being – no other hair color has invited such a wide range of interpretations of a woman’s personality as the copper top. Is she the daughter of the devil or an earthbound angel? The false assumption that nature has unified good and evil within a person through a physical feature makes people with more common hair color insecure. The hair question is a tactful method to feel someone out. If it isn’t dyed, if you aren’t Irish, then you must at least be an animal in bed. Red arouses the curiosity of complete strangers in new ways every day, inviting them to comment and project.
After 26 years, you would’ve thought I’d heard it all, but it’s not the case. The daily reminders of the gold reserve on my head only renew my assured exoticness. This attribute, to which I am consistently reduced by others, has become a personal obsession. It’s unquestionably one of the most intimate relationships in my life. I would never color it. I base my personality and much of my decision making on my hair. I have a tacit understanding of my redhead sisters, even without knowing them. Yet this love is one I’m reluctant to share. If a new nighttime acquaintance pays homage to my fox-colored pelt within the first couple minutes, then I turn my back — pivoting elegantly on my stiletto. One should adopt a subtle appreciation for it, instead of falling victim to an age-old myth.
Recently I found out from my new suitor that I was his third ginger girlfriend – what a coincidence! I’ve become interchangeable: after the breakup his next catch is red like me. Perhaps surprisingly, it doesn’t sadden me much: the power of being able to count my fire crotch as one of my finest weapons, and knowing that my kind doesn’t mind abandoning one of its own, is in fact a great comfort to me. Double red means twice as hot! I can ease into the fantasy that the woman on Jack White’s side isn’t Karen Elson, but me. »I fell in love with a girl« – yeah, yeah, he wrote that for me.
Labels: fashion, fetish, l'amour, magazines, redheads