the red-headed league
The other day, on some godforsaken CBC morning show, they were discussing discrimination against redheads. Not only that, but they were discussing it *seriously*.
Seriously: if this is fair game, then anything is. Where do I get my compensation for being tall? Oh, you might think it's a gift, but you should feel the roadway of scars on the top of my skull from all those times I just didn't clear the doorway. Or the roof of the car. Or the air ducts in the basement. Oh yes, it was most grand that year of grade seven when I grew about two feet. When everything hurt, and nothing fit, and people expected me to be nineteen. Or twenty four.
I still love the double hernias I get trying to fold myself into people's cars. And being asked to carry heavy things, over long distances, just because I have the arms of an ape. And here's an open call to every old lady in every supermarket in the world: don't hesitate to point and grunt at that dusty box on the top shelf; I'm always willing to get it down for you. No thank you's necessary. Just shuffle along, you crazy little kleenex.
Look: everyone can claim discrimination over something. Too short, too fat, too smart, too dumb, too geeky, too goth, too beautiful, too blonde, too much time spent writing cheeky things in blogs. Even poor Oona can claim discrimination for being small. And portly. And easily captured in prisons made of pillows. Every day a bouncy Guantánamo Bay.
Okay: so redheads have it bad historically, what with Judas being a redhead. And Ivan the Terrible. And Attila the Hun. And Jack the Ripper. And Lenin. And Lizzie Borden. And Hitler. Yes, Hitler. I bet you didn't know that.
Oh, and the devil.
But *come on*. You've got Lucille Ball. Bernadette Peters (still very cute). Van Gogh. Emily Dickinson. Queen Elizabeth.
And Carrot Top. Unfortunately.
Sure, the scales are still tipped by the whole Hitler thing, and being descended from Satan, but there's plenty of time yet to turn things around.