Ginges on the fringes

A first-hand observation of the trails and tribulations of the Ginger “condition.”


Alexis Hoedeman

The looks on the faces of resident red heads Sofie Madden, Tommy Borin, and Alec Johnson indicate an apparent weariness with the excessive amount of publicity they receive in all aspects of life.

Throughout my life, I have been plagued with flaming red hair, freckled face, and blindingly pale skin. Because of my gingerness, I regularly host third-degree burns from the sun, and am mistaken at least three times a day for Bill Weasley. My condition, if you will, has always created many a problems for me personally but now I’ve come to the realization that I am not alone. All gingers experience practically identical symptoms. These are their stories.

For instance, whenever I go outside, I am almost guaranteed to be sunburned, no matter what time of year it is, what the cloud cover is like, or what precautions I have taken. “You can’t escape it, I’ve gotten sunburned even when it’s 40 degrees and cloudy–it was awful. I’m a big user of the 100+ SPF Ultra-Strength sunscreen any time of the year,” said fellow ginger and sympathizer, Kyle Johnson.

Also, it’s nearly impossible for a ginger to attempt to disguise his or herself in a crowd. My signal fire of a haircut acts as a built-in homing beacon whenever my friends are on the lookout for me. My dazzling locks also make it extremely hard to win a game of hide and seek unless I am disguising myself as a pile of autumn leaves or traffic cone. Not to mention that fact that I can never become an indistinguishably stealthy F.B.I. agent.

Not only that, but I’ve heard a rumor going around that we gingers do not have souls. Although this statement is completely inaccurate, we do not take offense. On the contrary, I believe that my soul in particular is bigger than most. As a matter of fact, I was just planning on adopting fourteen impoverished puppies from a small village in Sierra Leone.

Regardless of my good deeds, being a ginger supplies a vast assortment of nicknames ranging from Ron Weasley to Ginga’ Ninja. The above maladies, and many more, burden the average ginger relentlessly.  “I’ve been called angel before because of my righteously pure skin,” said Johnson. Personally, I enjoy being called Strawberry Shortcake; It’s more original and I don’t hear it as much.

Despite all this like soldiers of red, we trudge on, for we know that our red hair and pale skin signifies us as the superior breed. Why else would we be able to bewitch women with our flowing amber hair or fry eggs on our sunburnt skin?