On Being a Redhead

As I learn more about this disease they call M.S. and its innate ability to strike fair-skinned people, most of whom are women, I began to wonder about the existence of scientific research as it relates to redheads and medical conditions. More on that later, but first let me provide a little background on what life is like - as a redhead.

It seems many of our funniest family stories revolve around my birth. My mom tells of the day that I was born, when she looked down, saw that I was a redhead, cried and then told the doctor to push me back in so I could cook a little longer. She says it wasn't because I was an ugly baby, but rather, because she knew from that moment that I would be challenged both by the sun and my fair skin. The doctor didn't do as requested. In fact, he pulled me out with forceps. For the first month of my young life, my devoted mother rubbed my head, day and night, trying to turn its cone shape into a normal round or oval. To this day, I still have a slight bump on the top of my head and really big forehead. Forceps = forehead. I'm convinced.

My parents planted a tree the day I came home from the hospital. It grew in our backyard for 39 years, shading me and protecting me from the sun. They cut it down last year. It grew unwieldy, much like me. They saved me a big ring of the tree because it was one of my best friends.

So there I was, entering grade school - a redhead. An undercooked, slightly cone-headed redhead with translucent skin shaded only by the freckles that donned me from head to toe. Throw in a full set of braces, Peter-Pan collared shirts, knee high socks and a plaid school uniform and I was a beauty! I had the fashion sense though to hide my slips under my Aunt's couch and in her glove compartment instead of under my skirt. And I wore my greatest fashion accessory - my patent leather shoes - with the utmost pride.

I hated being a redhead.

By the time my junior prom arrived, I swore I was going to be like the other bronze beauties amongst my peer group. The day of the prom, with both of my parents away from the house for the afternoon, I bought a reflective sun tanning blanket (hey, it was the 80's). Sun tan oil was banned in our house. If it wasn't 100 SUV Proof, it wasn't on our shelves. So, instead, I slathered on Crisco and I fell asleep in the sun for two, straight hours. My dad pulled in the driveway, took a deep sniff of the air and asked, "Who is cooking chicken?" Needless to say, while all the other girls were dancing the night away with their dates, I sat at the table with my boyfriend Phil, unable to move, unable to breathe without being in pain. I was mortified and I smelled really bad. Eau de Chicken doesn't go away with just one shower.

By my senior prom, I grew in intelligence, but I still wanted to be tan. I had a beautiful white gown and I wanted tawny skin beneath it. So, I played it safe and bought the newest item on the market - self-tanning lotion. It was called "Q.T." (remember it)? I'm not one for patience or for paying attention to detail, so Phil (why he was still dating me at this point I haven't a clue - he probably asks himself that often to this day) took his date to the prom with a big, orange handprint on her left shoulder. My hands were perfectly white from wrists to fingertips. I glowed in the dark. I looked ridiculous but had a funny story to tell.