Anne Tobin,
Normal, IL.
Ever since I was thirteen, I’ve had to deal with the flack of my hair color. After South Park aired their “Ginger” episode, I hear ginger jokes every day at least once. When I enter a room or when I try and talk. “Shut up, Ginger.” “No one cares ’cause you’re a ginger.” Any time I flubbed up a word, tripped over something, or forgot my homework, it was because I have no soul. I grew to hate my hair, my one defining feature and I wanted to change it all because of their incessant jokes and teasing. I would wear hats to hide my hair and tie it up to make it less noticeable. I would cry to my mom about dying my hair. I even saved up money for my new hair color. Of course my mother would not allow me to dye my hair, so I just had to roll with the punches. Yes I know, I’m white, and I might not have the most room to talk, but it did affect me. It still does. I hate the very word “ginger” and get insulted whenever anyone calls me that name.
