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A ginger speaks: You can keep your emoji, we don’t need your acceptance

Yesterday, we gingers finally got our own emoji. Which is not cool. The last thing we want is your pithy acceptance, or become a sex symbol you’ve made.



Rednut, Ginger pubes, rust cock.

I’ve been called all of the above, by the drunk, unreasonable, sober and horny alike.

I’ve been ranga-shamed…and I have no problem with it. The question has long been posed if we were actually human, had souls or were monsters, and the answer was a quiet laugh with a collective no.



Good times.

Yesterday was a particular glum day for we gingers. We’ve entered the dictionary of our age, as now our generic likeness is now available in emoji form.



Now, while some of the red menace heralded this as a great moment of vindication, one where we joined the greater crowd on this spinning nonsense orb, I contend that they might not really be gingers.

They probably only wear their red on their chin.

The thing that worries me is the mainstreaming of us. For years untold we’ve been the social outlier. The spotty minority in the corner. A party to chat to, but never take home. Movies support this claim. Our icons have been the lovelorn, the useless and the safe. Richie Cunningham. Ron Weasley. The other Weasleys. Miranda from Sex and the City.

With that being said, we can be beautiful, as the attractive redhead has always been uncommon. The unicorn among the donkeys. Even then, it’s not exactly a closed deal. They’re hot…for a ginger.

We’re an acquired taste.

Which is to say, we were. We are now inherently fuckable, and there are people I hold responsible for that. Sometime after Prince Harry stopped drinking through his retina and cleaned up his act, the mass sexualisation of the redhead began in earnest.



All the blame must not be on the minted shoulders of Harry, as Christina Hendricks poured herself into the office space of Sterling Cooper, as someone who both uses sex as power and who is also rather much of a looker. That being said, Hendricks is not an actual redhead, her character is. Joan Holloway has the easy two-dimensional sexuality of that woman on the Redheads packet. Again, she’s not natural either, she’s cardboard.



Holloway is a grand example of the modern sexualisation of the redhead. She’s been manufactured. We need a swingin’ hot dame, let’s make her a redhead, boys. 

The point I’m trying to make is you can make a redhead character sexy, but a real redhead is inherently the opposite. In fact, any attempt to make a natural redhead either racy, sexy or bad invariably ends up becoming, well bad.

Peep game at Ed Sheeran in his clip for The Shape of You, where he’s a grimy boxer…or something.



You can tell Ed is a natural, because he looks unnatural. I was fortunate to witness this video drunk at karaoke. The revelry took a humorous turn, as the group I was with chortled at Ed’s Fight Club cosplay. The above video says it all. We’ll stoop to your restrictive beauty aesthetics, but only if we can wrestle a Sumo.

It’s a metaphor.

Honestly, we don’t want your acceptance. We don’t want to be a dish you eat every day. From there, comes normalcy, and from that, boredom.

We’ll be like everyone else, and that defeats the purpose.

We’re not fucking blondes.






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