Nearly every day, I wish I was more of a ginger. You know. Redder hair, whiter skin, more freckles.

Who asks for that? Who, in an age where South Park has taught our children that gingers are evil, soulless beings of the underworld, not just wishes to be one, but wishes to be more of one?

Me. And only me.

To make matters worse, I’ve been trolling through Fuck Yeah Red Hair, lusting after everyone. Except for the foreign male model with Rapunzel-like hair. That sort of creeps me out. But other than that, my jealousy is overwhelming.

Of course, I won’t actually do anything about it. And it would be easy, too. I have to go outside every once in a while to achieve a slightly more freckled state, and all I’d have to do is dye my hair.

I just can’t bring myself to do it. I have some strange attachment to being able to think (or say), “It’s natural,” when people compliment my hair color (except for a section of blonde underneath). I guess it’s because I’m one of the few people I know with (almost) all natural hair color, and I feel like every little old woman in the world appreciates that. I don’t want to disappoint somebody’s grandmother.

I need to just get over it and grow a pair. By this Saturday, when I am getting my hair cut.

Sigh.

I’ll leave you with a few (I use the term “few” loosely here) pictures of gorgeous redheads:

And I can’t forget the stunning, gorgeous, beautiful, etc. Cintia Dicker, who I kind of feel is perfection personified (and if you disagree, you can meet me on the playground after school):