Freckles, Red Hair, and Surviving Childhood
Childhood can be a ruthless little country, especially if you happen to look different. I had freckles—lots of them. Not a tasteful scattering across the nose like you see in magazines now. I mean the full constellation. Summer only made them bolder, as if the sun itself had taken a special interest in my face. And then there was the hair. When I was very young, it was more orange than red—the bright, unapologetic orange of old photographs and family memory. Later it deepened into red. Not auburn. Not chestnut. Not any of the polite adult words invented later to soften things. Just red enough to make me self-conscious before I knew what self-conscious meant. I had already gone through the “carrot top” years, which was bad enough. By the time the orange turned red, the teasing had simply updated itself. To children, this was irresistible material. Kids notice anything that stands out, and in those years standing out was dangerous business. If you were d...
