The Revenge of the Gingers
I come from a long lineage of redheads. My mother, red-haired. My aunts, red-haired. and my sister. I grew up in a village where the ratio of redheads to everyone else bordered on statistical nonsense. If a geneticist had wandered through, he’d have assumed some kind of weird experiment was underway. Yet, being ginger was never the blessing the latest scientists now suggest it might be.
A new study out of Harvard arrives with a long-overdue apology. It suggests that red hair may not be the chromosomal comedy we were led to believe it is. It may have been beneficial all along. Possibly advantageous, even superior.
The study draws from tens of thousands of ancient remains—proof, if nothing else, that redheads have always been with us, lingering through ice ages, empires, and questionable fashion trends. Researchers found that certain genetic traits, including those linked to red hair, have increased over time. The likely explanation is vitamin D synthesis. Pale, lightly-pigmented skin absorbs more sunlight in overcast northern climates, giving carriers a meaningful survival edge. Less a genetic misfire than a very sensible adaptation that simply photographs badly.
Although the study suggests having red hair was beneficial, this will come as news to anyone who attended an Irish school in the 1990s or early-2000s, where being ginger was treated like a mild character flaw. Ireland, for reasons that are never fully explained, has always had a complicated relationship with its redheads. We produce them in impressive numbers, then spend childhood reminding them of it with a level of creativity that would be admirable if it weren’t so relentless.
There were jokes Questions about souls. Comparisons to carrots, flames, and various endangered species. My mother and sister have the battle scars to prove it—stories told with solemnity. I listened sympathetically, offered comfort where I could, and kept very quiet about the fact that I had, as a child, contributed enthusiastically to the same tradition. Providence spared me the red hair. I rewarded that mercy with absolutely no loyalty. To be a redhead in Ireland was, and to some degree still is, an affliction you were born with, which, given the Irish capacity for original sin, fits neatly into the existing theological framework.
In America, the redhead isn’t mocked but mythologized. Suddenly, the same hair that earned you grief back home becomes a kind of calling card. Distinctive. Marketable, even.
Advertising agencies caught on long before the scientists did. For years, a disproportionate number of commercials have featured redheads, smiling knowingly as if they’ve been in on the joke the whole time. There’s something about the look—striking, a little unconventional—that sticks in the mind. You remember a redhead.
In addition to the vitamin D advantage, there are other claims, too, some more dubious than others, about temperament, sensitivity to temperature, and even frequency of sexual activity. The science on this is, to put it charitably, still developing.
What the new research really does, beyond the headlines and the inevitable “gingers will inherit the Earth” gibberish, is force a reconsideration. Traits we once dismissed or ridiculed often have deeper roots, shaped by environments and pressures we barely understand. If something persists, there’s usually a reason. And red hair has persisted.
Consider this a small, overdue love letter to the redheads. The ones who endured the barbs, the clichés, the strange mix of fascination and scorn. The ones who grew up being told they were different, only to discover that different, given enough time and data, can become advantageous.