…and I’m usually the mutual friend that introduces her to him.
This story on CNN’s site explores the male obsession with the female with the red hair. At one point the writer claims there is no complementary obsession on the part of women toward red-haired men. I beg to differ, because
I WAS A MALE REDHEAD
That’s right, there was a time when my head was literally sprouting thick luxurious wavy locks of strawberry-blonde goodness that were the envy of other males and the lusting heart’s desire of all women, no matter what age or even sexual orientation. I had an advantage over other red-headed males in that my skin wasn’t entirely lacking in pigment, a la Conan O’Brien. And just to make things even harder to resist, I had a full beard of sumptuously silken red whiskers.
Sadly, those days are gone now, and all that remains to me is a red fringe around my bald head. My beard has turned gray. I am no longer universally admired and lusted-after.
Okay – I never was. But there are women who have The Thing for redheads. And no matter how young or old they are, whether married or single, they just don’t seem able to control it. I, of course, have always been much too noble to take advantage of these poor disturbed creatures – not even my mom’s best friend when I was a teenager. She was the one who would always grab my ass when no one was looking and stick her tongue in my ear. I never succumbed to that. Never. I swear.
I, too, went through my period of fascination with red-headed women. There really is something about them that was at first difficult to articulate. And then, one day in the midst of a particularly onerous red-on-red relationship, it hit me. You know the story about how if there are 100 men in a room, and 99 of them are the nicest guys on the planet, all the women will be crowded around the one asshole? That’s the deal with red-headed women, but in reverse, gender-wise. I will, for my self-image’s sake, not speculate as to how this applies to red-haired men.
In short, redheads are bitches. They think their poo smells like roses. They know they are a rarity, DNA-wise, and they think that makes them special. Redheads will give you the time of day, then several hours of the evening, and then kick your sorry ass out in the morning and scream someone else’s name at you as they slam the door. All redheads are in some way psycho. And men eat this stuff up. I call it The Redheaded Death Wish.
This is similar to, but much scarier than, the well-known Italian Babe Death Wish. Italian women have an inverted menstrual cycle: you get maybe three, four, five good days a month if you’re lucky. The rest of the time you might as well be living with a serial killer. But with Italian women you know what’s coming.
Redheads are scary because of the lightning-fast switch from the woman of your dreams who does all that nasty stuff you only read about, to this vicious sort-of badger-woman who will peel the skin off your face and then eat it, raw, right in front of you. One minute she’s telling your friends what a great guy you are, and the next she’s holding her hands apart as if sizing a fish she caught – a very small fish. And they are laughing, and she is looking at you with that “burn in Hell where little worms like you belong” look in her eyes – the one that is very similar to the “when I get you home I’m gonna put rug burns on your ass on the living room carpet” look, and if you aren’t totally on your game, you’re not sure which you’re getting.
So I have reformed, just as a matter of self preservation, because female redheads are the preying mantis of our species. Give me a nice tall, thin, raven-haired Anglo-Saxon, or a well-rounded Brazilian with that insanely curly brown hair, or a muscular Israeli woman who can field-strip an automatic rifle and beat me arm wrestling. Something I can deal with. Because now and then you have to get some sleep, and if you live with a redhead you damn well better sleep with one eye open.