There's something about redheads.

 I don't know what it is, but for some reason red hair provokes. It makes little boys run up and scream in your face "Eww. Your hair is RED!

It invariably causes postal men, panhandlers, truck drivers and 8th Avenue winos alike to yell "Hey Red," as if it's gonna garner them a smile (or a quarter).


You'll get neither a smile nor a quarter from a redhead with that line.

Another infamous line that we redheads of the female persuasion have to hear all the time is

"Hey, are you a natural redhead?" as the conjecturer's eyes make a beeline for your crotch.

That line ensures that you are never, ever gonna find out, mister. Granted, your life is dreary and your need for color I can understand, but we redheads are tired of being reduced to
a fetish,
a crotch,
a challenge,
a mystery to be solved.
It's not the hair that turns men on, it's the spirit that redheads exude.
Angela Carter once wrote about Marilyn Monroe that it was her "bruisability" that attracted men (and women); for redheads it's their woundability.

The feelings of being plump and freckly and ugly and the memories of boys yelling "carrot-top," "fire-crotch" and the rest never leave a redhead.

As children, we were sorry freaks.
We weren't asked to dance. People gawked at us. Adults felt pity for us. It sucked.