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.