I want to have redheaded babies. I don’t want to snack on them with goat cheese; I want to make them. Three would be nice, but I’ll settle on two. I need to get cracking in the next few years. There seems to be a shortage of redheads on the planet, a crisis even. My ex-boyfriend is convinced we split because he couldn’t give me redheaded babies. "You’re such a racist," he’d moan before biting me on the arm.
"I am not. I just want my babies to look like me, not you." I said it with a smile, as if I didn’t really mean it. I meant it. His hair was black, his skin quite dark; our children would look like muppets. Not a good time.
Yes, at the end of the day, who cares, blah blah, health, blah, ten toes, blah. We know. Product of love, blah. Whatever, I want redheads. And yes, that is a photo of me, and while both my parents are natural redheads, people are usually most surprised by the fact that my father is a redhead. How many times have I heard, "Fine, I’ll give you redheaded babies, but you can’t give me a redheaded son." Paul Bettany is strawberry blonde in my book. Giddyup.