Thinking While Naked

You can be sure I’m not trying to educate anyone in art history, but I saw an analysis of this great Rembrandt picture that shows Bathsheba contemplating a letter she received from David, who you all must know was very hot for her. At the time of the picture she had not yet slept with David, so she was not knocked up, and she had not yet conveniently become a widow. If you haven’t read the story in “The Book”, there is also a great song about it, “Hallelujah”, written by Leonard Cohen, and sung most excellently by the late great Jeff Buckley. Now I’m thinking she must have been some sizzling number to drive a man to those lengths, but of course, history left us no accurate pictures. For reasons I’m trying to understand, most depictions of her show her as a redhead. Rembrandt, Francesco, Ricci, Artemisia, and Hollywood all cast her in shades from ginger to auburn, sometimes an innocent victim and sometimes as the cunning seducer. Since I changed to red I must admit I’ve gotten a bit of an attitude. Perhaps it would be the same if I had gone with another color, but I think red has some serious implications. No woman who dyes her hair red is looking to slink back into the corner and hide.

In England they make fun of “ginger” girls more insidiously than we tease blonds. For them it appears to be a sort of racial profiling alluding to what they see as the less desirable genes of Wales, Ireland, and Scotland where there is indeed a high percentage of red headed people. I heard my daughter’s friend Steve Hughes at the comedy store in London making great fun of “getting a big ginger girl”, with the implication that they were no better than they should be. Everyone laughed including my obviously (albeit dyed) red headed self, even if uncomfortably. Later I mentioned to my girl that they certainly didn’t care much for redheads on this side of the pond. Her immediate comment was, “You’re not ginger, your hair is auburn”. I did not hear a word of denial in that statement, only an effort to reassure me that I was a safe step above the general run of riff raff being ridiculed. The distinction was a bit fuzzy for me although I know Dan, my hair guy, achieved a rich dark color with no hint of orange. The stereotypical “red headed stepchild” is a freckle face, frizzy curled, carrot top, which the Brits seem to feel is a product of some bad breeding.

Most of us on this side of the Atlantic make very little differentiation between the divisions of the UK, as our distance and insular thinking often blurs the distinction between regions and countries. As you might imagine this lack of understanding is annoying to most British, especially since they are inclined to group us under the banner of mongrels and rebels who defied the obvious blessing of British imperialism and bit off the very hand that fed them. Like good parents, they do seem willing to forgive the insult and are relatively tolerant of our ignorance concerning the strange lands outside our borders. After all, it gives them great material for jokes. At least when they disrespect us they do it politely and intellectually, unless they’re really drunk of course. As I told my blogmate from Yorkshire, Soubriquet, I will concede the abysmal lack of knowledge of at least 51% of Americans, but Brits should really try some of our excellent beers before calling them all horse piss. I will dispute the mongrel issue briefly as my research tells me that until the last generation there was much less mixing of genes in this country than one would imagine. In my own family, be they lowland or highland, the genetic material on my father’s side came exclusively from Scotland, while all my mother’s ancestors were overwhelmingly British with a dash of Irish for flavor. Incidentally, as far as I know there has never been a natural redhead in the lot of them.

I was standing in one of my favorite spots, the bathroom line at *nzo’s , that place I can’t name, but it begins with an “E”. A very nice looking fiftyish light skinned black man stared at me briefly, then introduced himself as Anthony. I told him my name was Elaine.
“Hum”, he said, “I used to date an Elaine.” Laughing suggestively I asked him,
“Oh, was it me?” We’ve already established that I' m flirt now, so just don’t go there. Anthony looks at me carefully and says,
“No, she wasn’t a redhead.” Smiling slyly I alert him,
“Well, I haven’t always been a redhead,” to which the naughty Anthony replies,
“Only one way to tell.” I may have said something that implied how futile the research would be if he was thinking to find out that way, or I may have just thought it as I locked the ladies room door. Sometimes the lines between what goes on in my head and reality get real blurry, especially when I’ve had a pint or two. What struck me in the cool clear light of day is the fascination American men have for redheads, and the contrast between that almost worshipful intrigue and the harassment they experience in UK.

In the US a redheaded female is characterized as savvy, sensual, feisty, and fiery, perhaps not everyone’s first choice for a wife, but certainly desirable qualities for a lover. Only a secure, strong, male is able to take her on as a lifetime companion, but she is the object of many men’s fantasy from round heads like Charlie Brown to crowned heads like the amorous David, which leads us back to poor Bathsheba. I wonder if she really was a redhead? As rare as the hair color is, found in less than one percent of the human population, there were certainly redheads among the Israelites, her lover David being prominent among them. The thing she had with the King went badly for her husband Uriah, plus the love child she had with the king was cursed by Nathan the prophet and only lived a few days. However, her later sons by David survived, and Solomon went on to occupy the throne with his mother’s help and advice. There is a shaky chain of evidence that today’s British royalty is directed descended from David, perhaps supported by the fact that at least 10 of those sovereigns have been redheads. Hmm, I may have just hit on the reason for the British antagonism against ginger. I sense the Brits are perpetually annoyed with the monarchy, often with good cause. I am thinking time in the tower, a bit of torture, and a few beheadings by a less than benign red headed tyrant might cause a bit of unreasonable bigotry toward those who looked like bastard children of his liege.

I ran across a school picture of my very first boyfriends a few months ago. Too bad they weren’t using color film, because he was one adorable redheaded six year old. The only other thing I remember about him is that he was very quiet and that he gave me a quick peck on the cheek one day before racing off to play. I acted disgusted to let my crew know that I was not a loose woman, but in my heart I pledged my undying love. I only wish I could remember his name. I do remember the name of the only other follicly tested friend of my childhood, Janice Sue. She had hair the color of the orange marigolds that grew in her mother’s front yard, and eyes as green as their foliage. While she was a sweet, if slightly stubborn girl most of the time, you best not call her “carrot top” if you valued your life. Her parents both had dark brown hair and eyes and expected a child with the same. Her highly conventional mother had been asked during her late in life pregnancy if she wanted a boy or a girl. Having no children at all at that point she said she didn’t care as long as the baby wasn’t red headed or cross-eyed. God really does have a sense of humor, because when first placed in her mother’s arms, the baby not only had a shock of copper hair, she was trying to look at her own nose. What with her parent’s mortification and the teasing about her hair, Janice Sue was one tough cookie, something I admire in my friends.

I’ve done a bit of research on the origins and genetic implications of red hair and found there is an indication that the gene may submerge permanently in the foreseeable future and there will effectively be no more natural redheads. The genetic anomaly is a recessive trait requiring that both parents have the marker, so it becomes rarer with every generation. I would hate to see the day when boys don’t have a little red headed girl to languish over, but according to genetic scholars it is possible. The Brits may not realize it now but they would miss the diversion of these fearless, fiery titans if they should disappear. History tells us that redheads have influence out of proportion to their numbers from David and Bathsheba on down to the present day. Although not the first to do so, Bruce Springsteen wrote a less than subtle account of the power of the red head’s sensuality in this song about his wife. Even thought I have only adopted this color, a red headed poser I suppose, I feel the weight of it’s implications and am up to the challenge. It’s too soon to say if I’m making history, but I do know that the winners write those books. We’ll see now, won’t we?