My three-year-old, Lenny, has red hair. I know he has red hair. He knows he has red hair. Yet still most people still find it necessary to tell us he has red hair.
When he was a baby people would pat him (like a dog) and I was and still am genuinely bemused by all the fuss about his hair colour. I, of course, think it’s beautiful and like most mothers feel a bit proud that he has this special feature that others love to comment on. We have actually had people chasing us down in the street to tell us our son has red hair.
One middle aged business man in the city paused his phone call to say, “Oh, I used to have hair just like that”. He was now mostly bald with wisps of grey. It was strange, but lovely that he felt compelled to say something, like he was seeing himself in this little boy and the sense of nostalgia overwhelmed him.
And there is a certain camaraderie among red heads - most often the comments we get are from someone with equally copper locks. So yes, it's lovely (if ever so slightly annoying when we're in a rush) and I've even found myself becoming that person, including one particularly creepy moment with a check out chap at the supermarket.
But lately, particularly as Lenny gets older, I've found the comments turning a little dark, bordering on downright offensive, and it's bringing out my mama bear.
For instance, we were recently with Lenny's cousins at a restaurant (Ok it was Hungry Jacks, but whatever) and an older couple was sitting across the way.
At the end of their meal they came over to our table and I thought I was going to have to apologise for the behaviour of our four boys under four, when the woman turned to Lenny and said, "Look at your red hair! Do you know what they call redheads? Rangas. Like Orang-utans - you have orang-utan hair."