Some call it a curse, being born with red hair, and that being born into a family where every single member is a redhead must be some sort of bad omen. I beg to differ. Even though it can be rough at points, I have come to love my hair and every little thing that comes with it. My freckles grow at a rapid rate, my hair seems to burn like fire in the sun (While my skin actually does burn from the sun, no matter how much sunscreen I lather on.), and it has made me a part of the two percent. This percentage is the number of redheads in the world and I was born with five other family members directly able to help me grow up and own my hair color.

Being a redhead means being able to be picked out of a crowd, being called names that go with your hair color, and being asked if it is natural and where one can acquire such color. However, it also means being a part of some greater family. Sure, I have met my fair share of grumpy, mean, stubborn redheads, but it is like we have some sort of connection and acknowledgment that we are in this together. We aren’t going extinct, we aren’t going to turn into vampires, and the gene that makes our hair the color of the sun at dusk might just be lurking unknown in that blonde, brunette, or black haired person’s DNA who stared us down, judged us, or said, “ I would never want to have a redheaded child,” a while back. I know that anesthesia barely works on me due to a root canal that was four hours longer than it should have been, that I can notice even the slightest changes in temperature, and that genetic mutations can be awesome. Yes, our MC1R gene is mutated, making redheads basically the super-powerless mutants of reality.

I have always been told to love my hair, to never cut it or dye it. People have told me that they would die for my color, which seems a little drastic. Whenever I go out with my family, we get stares, side eyes, and even sometimes pictures of those who are awed by seeing so many of us ginger mutants. However, I have been taught to love and embrace the color on my head, the one that relates to my temper and the crazy person who I am. I have been taught to ignore the naysayers and those who judge and just live my life being who I wish to be. My hair may set me apart, but in many ways it lifts me up higher than I could ever imagine, it gets me places that I didn’t know existed, and it has even given me confidence that I didn’t know that I had within me. I want people to see my hair, but I also want people to see past the sunscreen, the flames upon my head, and the freckles like constellations running across my face and arms. I want people to see me and all of my two percenters, along with everyone else, as what we are: human. It’s just one gene.