As I strolled through the park with my son one day, a cyclist shouted, “Check out that carrot top!” I almost responded with a quip about how carrot tops are typically green, but he zoomed past too quickly. Even if he had heard me, my response would likely have landed as well as my childhood comebacks—meaning, not at all.
Each outing with my son invites a slew of unsolicited comments about his beautiful, curly red hair. The remarks range from the thoughtless to the downright rude. “He’s going to be a handful!” “That little redhead is trouble.” “Redheads have no souls, you know.” However, the most frustrating comment, disguised as a question, is, “Where did he get that red hair?”
My own hair, while not as vibrant as his, earned its share of teasing during my school years. Initially, when strangers would ask about my son’s hair, my husband would shoot me an exasperated glance, drawing attention to my own hair color. This tactic didn’t deter anyone, so he tried a different approach, shrugging and saying, “Me, obviously.” When that failed as well, he resorted to brief lessons on genetics: “It’s in the long arm of chromosome 16.” I took a softer approach: “It’s a recessive gene from both of us.”
Despite our explanations, the questions persist. In an effort to provide a family connection, I would say, “It’s just like my mom’s hair when she was a child; he resembles her baby pictures!” This explanation has had some success, as it satisfies the curiosity of those trying to make sense of our family’s dynamic; they seem to struggle with the idea that my son’s hair could come from us when our own hair colors differ so much.
Nevertheless, all these responses feel inadequate. I’d prefer not to justify my son’s hair with a family history or to explain genetics while trying to navigate the grocery store with a toddler. Sometimes, I fantasize about replying with something like “My lover” and simply walking away. While it would bring me satisfaction, it wouldn’t teach my child valuable lessons about social interactions.
I suspect my responses feel lacking because I shouldn’t be the one addressing these comments. In her book, Red: A History of the Redhead, Laura Martin highlights a critical issue with the relentless commentary about red hair: “Growing up as a redhead, it sometimes felt as if the last person my red hair belonged to was me—the person from whose scalp it sprang.” The comments are never directed at my son; they’re about him. When people yell “carrot top” or jokingly claim he has no soul, they overlook his presence entirely.
If these individuals were engaging directly with my son, they could simply say, “I love your curly red hair!” Yet, outside of our immediate family, I can’t recall anyone offering that compliment.
Now that he’s old enough to converse, I’ve stepped back and allowed my son to respond himself. His answers often showcase a child’s creativity: “No, it’s green.” Depending on his mood and how many times he’s been asked that day, his tone can range from playful to downright snarky.
It’s the ideal response, affirming his individuality and encouraging others to interact with him. Most people quickly catch on, replying, “Yes, it’s a lovely green color.” This playful banter has even led a few oblivious commenters to speculate about colorblindness—a particularly amusing remark since, if they followed us around, they’d hear him accurately identifying colors left and right.
He’ll often conclude with “Now it’s blue,” which keeps the conversation lively and ensures he’s not just an object of their commentary.
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In summary, the incessant comments about my son’s red hair highlight how society often overlooks the individuality of children, reducing them to mere subjects of commentary rather than engaging with them directly. As my son grows older, I look forward to seeing how he navigates these interactions, armed with his unique sense of humor and creativity.