An ode to gingers

Consider this week’s what I love about Britain an homage to my many flame-haired friends, for today I admit that I love gingers. I never pronounce the g’s hard because red hair and the accompanying fair skin is the ultimate in delicacy. Perhaps that’s why gingers are so famous for having fiery personalities – to compensate for such dainty colouring. It could be because of the obvious comparison between the colour of fire and the colour of red hair, but I prefer my own psychological take (it makes me sound smarter, agreed?). When I moved to Aberystwyth, Wales, to begin my degree I was inexplicably housed with, and next-door to, an astonishing number of gingers. Out of the 12 people in the two houses, five had red hair. That’s obviously way above the average ratio of gingers to everyone else, even in Wales. Once I’d recovered from the shock (as soon as the first box of chocolates were bandied about), I realised I was actually quite jealous of my ginger compatriots. In Britain it takes a strong person to survive childhood with ginger hair; no one knows why but every ginger kid in the country is bullied for it. So my new housemates were already maturely ahead of me – they’d overcome adversity and managed to not murder someone in a rage after snapping from one taunt too many. I’d never been bullied or teased or pushed to the end of my tether because of something so trivial as hair colour. So that’s one thing I love about Britain – the ginger friends who have survived with humour (and hair) intact.

 

 

To read more of the Britican Perspective, and my plea to Jamba Juice, check out: http://calliope.jimdo.com/the_britican_perspective.php