Couth Ramble: SAA Ep.#74: Rude and Not Ginger

So since we last met, I have succumbed to the inevitable. People told me it would happen, and I think that deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time. Wibbly, wobbly time. Wime.

Yes. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I have become a Whovian, a fan, a fanatic really, of Doctor Who. And if you've been following me on Facebook, you already knew that. Because when I really like something, I don't just really like something. I obsess. I talk, post, geek out about it constantly. And the only thing to do is to let it run its course. Sorry Facebook followers. It's likely to only take a few months...or years. Not that long....

But this is not a post about Doctor Who.

This is a post about my hair. And before you get all uppity and call "Foul! You already wrote a post about your hair and its general tendency to get all out of control and sometimes eat small children," I'm not talking about my hair's general tendency to get all out of control and sometimes eat small children. ...Ok, well. Yes. There is that.

But more importantly...

I'm not ginger.

See, I've always wanted to be ginger-which is something the Doctor and I have in common (and if you're confused and have to ask 'Doctor Who?' then you've already answered your own question, sweetie). The Doctor has never been ginger, either.

It's so sad, because I have several ginger friends and a ginger nephew and a VERY ginger niece. So I am forced to see all these gorgeous people with hair resplendent like the noonday sun, and here I am with blah nonginger blah hair of blahness.

I have gotten so fed up with my nongingerness that I've artificially made myself ginger, but it's just not the same coming from a box of Natural Instincts, is it? Natural? No. The box lies.

The ginger is a lie.

I cannot live with ginger lies.

But see, I have all the basic ginger qualities. Hot temper. Extreme paleness. Or is that the other way around? Hmm....

At any rate, its just not fair that I have the complexion and temperament of a ginger without actually being ginger. It's like God's cruel joke. "Let there be Ruth. Let her be made like a ginger in every way. But not actually ginger. That will really burn her bisquick."

I kid. I kid. God knows what He's doing. Ginger is power, and I'm not worthy to weild it. "If you only knew the power of the ginger." "With great ginger comes great responsibility." "I want the ginger! You can't handle the ginger!" "It's not the wizard that chooses the ginger, but the ginger that chooses the wizard." "They're taking the gingers to Isengard." ...I think I've gotten off track...

Oh. Yes. Right.

The truth is, I'm just not worthy to be ginger.

But I have hope. This ten year old boy-type ginger came into the drop in center the other day. I commented on his hair, congratulating him on being ginger, lamenting over the fact that I was not ginger.

What he said next were the words my ears had wanted to hear since the day of my birth-that day when the doctor (NO! Not THAT Doctor) pulled me screaming from my mother's womb, slapped me on the rear, and proclaimed me "NOT A GINGER!" Since then, I'd been longing, hoping, praying...and that amazing young man uttered such fateful words:

"There is ginger in you," he said with great emotion, "I can sense it."

Actually, what he said was, "Your hair is mostly brown and blonde, but I can see some red in it, too. Can I stop talking to you about hair and play xbox now?"

Most people would not pay that any attention, but after years of being NOT GINGER, I was going to take what I could get. And if a cool ginger ten year old proclaimed me "part ginger," then I would take it.

Oh, yes. I would.

I'm part ginger, puny mortals. Cower before me! My hair, while not quite resplendent like the noonday sun, is at least radiant like the innards of a day-old glowstick. Cower! Cower before me!

Meh. Actually, being part ginger isn't all that amazing. Because deep down, what I really want is to be ginger AND Scottish. Because let's face it, with my Edward-Cullenish-avert-your-eyes-lest-my-whiteness-burn-your-corneas-complexion and my out-of-control-child-eating-part-ginger hair, I could totally pass for Scottish.

Like David Tennant.
Only a girl.
And not nearly as awesome.

Actually, it was just a few generations back that my ancestors decided to be Americans instead of Scots and came across the pond to the land of amber waves of grain (Seriously, even the grain gets to be ginger, too? Not cool. Consider my bisquick burned). So really, the Scot is in my blood. On both sides of my family. Hmm. You could even say I'm part Scottish.

Part ginger. Part Scottish. But only part. Yeah, that will have to do. Cuz I don't want to press my luck.
Because, see, when I say I want to be ginger and Scottish, this is what I have in mind: