One afternoon, while strolling through the park with my son, a cyclist zoomed past and shouted, “Look at that carrot top!” I almost wanted to point out that carrot tops are actually green, but he was gone before I could respond. Besides, my witty comeback would likely have landed as flatly as it did back in elementary school.
Every outing with my son invites a barrage of comments about his stunning curly red hair. The remarks range from thoughtless to downright rude: “He’ll be a handful!” or “That redhead is bound to cause trouble.” The most frustrating one, however, is the so-called question: “Where did he get that red hair?”
Having faced my own share of teasing about my auburn locks during my school years, I can relate. Initially, when people would query about my son’s hair, my husband would give a pointed look at my own hair in an attempt to address the situation. This strategy proved ineffective, so he settled for a shrug and a quip: “Me, obviously.” Yet that also failed to silence the inquisitors, leading him to attempt brief lessons in genetics: “It’s all about the long arm of chromosome 16.” I took a gentler approach, saying, “It’s a recessive gene, and both of us contributed.”
Despite our explanations, the questions kept coming. I started offering family anecdotes: “His hair color is just like my mom’s was when she was a child. He looks just like her baby photos!” This response has worked fairly well since it seems to satisfy the curiosity of those asking, as if they need to connect the dots about my son’s appearance, which deviates from ours.
However, I often find these responses less than fulfilling. I don’t want to justify my son’s hair by delving into a family history of hair colors, nor do I want to explain genetics while managing a toddler in a grocery store. Sometimes I fantasize about responding “He’s my lover” and walking away, but while that answer would be amusing, it wouldn’t teach my child anything valuable about navigating social interactions.
I suspect my dissatisfaction stems from the reality that I shouldn’t be the one answering. Jackie Colliss Harvey, in her book Red: A History of the Redhead, highlights a critical issue: “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 directed at my son, yet they aren’t engaging him; they’re merely passing judgment.
If only the commenters would address my son directly, they could simply say, “Your curly red hair is beautiful.” Strangely, I can’t recall anyone outside our family offering him that compliment.
Now that he’s old enough to respond, I’ve started letting him speak for himself. His replies showcase the creativity of children: “No, it’s green.” Depending on his mood and the frequency of the question that day, his tone can range from playful to somewhat defensive.
It’s the perfect retort—it firmly asserts his individuality and invites people to interact with him as a person. Often, those who ask quickly join in on the joke: “Yes, it’s a lovely green color!” His response has even led some oblivious commenters to whisper about possible color blindness, which is particularly humorous since he often identifies colors with precision. He promptly corrects them, claiming his hair is blue now.
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In summary, while the comments about my son’s red hair are relentless, I’ve learned to navigate them by encouraging him to respond in his own unique way. This not only empowers him but also highlights the importance of engaging with others respectfully.