Seeing red.

I used to have a theory that ginger individuals were either drop-dead gorgeous or somewhat aesthetically challenged. Either way, it is an evolutionary tragedy when it emerges that the perversely named “fanta pants” posse will soon become extinct.

In times gone by, redheads were often branded as wicked witches and werewolves, Machiavellian vampires and even Mr Mephistopheles himself. Since time immemorial, the Carrot Top Clan can boast such members as fluffy squirrels, fluffier orang-utans and the extra-follicular Highland cow. But new scientific research shows that our childhood cartoon comrades Fred and Barney, Bam Bam and Pebbles may also have been proprietors of the ginger gene.

Articles in the Mail on Sunday and news items on the BBC delighted in this latest russet-coloured revelation. And although not particularly mind-blowing in itself, it nevertheless revisits the fiery question, why is it that people would rather be seen dead, than red?

Now personally, I don’t really see what is wrong with having Satsuma coloured hair. In fact, I happen to adore the auburn look. But I do think that the rather negative ginger image that smug brunettes and scoffing blondes cruelly promote actually lies not in the hue of the hair, but in the abundance of freckles adorning the skin.

I think freckles are cute. But of course this is the problem. I can’t imagine a 17 year old hormonal teen plagued by angst and all things dark being ecstatic with this particular accolade. On top of the freckles, La-La Land lovely, Lindsey Lohan, was once infamously referred to as “fire crotch” by one of her many rich-list rivals. Nice. Despite the redheads in Gulliver’s Travels being unstoppable, the damning duo of freckles and ginger hair are not traditionally accompanied by lashings of sex appeal.

John Frieda has tried to spice things up for the ginger nuts by adding “Radiant Red” to his delicious, and might I add incredibly opulent range of shampoo. But it still does not quite compete with the Sheer Blonde and Brilliant Brunette strands. It also seems a little extreme and economically counter-productive to concoct a particular range of hair cleaning product for 1-2% of the world’s population. But then again, if he didn’t, he would immediately be branded as being gingerist.

Gingerphobia is an undeniable reality. Pregnant mothers lie awake at night, belly in the air, fraught with worry, desperately trying to calculate the mathematical possibility of their newborn popping out with a crop of orange hair atop its cute little head. I do sincerely hope that the urban myths of horrified mothers tossing their strawberry blond babies into lakes are utterly unfounded. But persecuted they remain.
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I found out only recently that a particularly good friend of mine is in fact a member of the Bogus Blonde Brigade. Not only that, but she is, naturally, a Titian muse, aka ginge. She told me she wanted to make sure we were friends before she dropped the bombshell (alas, not a truly blonde one) and confessed. I have to admit, I felt cheated.

There is no doubt that whatever her roots, I would embrace her and her orange tresses warmly. I would still love her just as much as ever, just maybe not set her up with my cousin anymore.

The Ginga Gang need to stop conforming and start revelling in their flame-coloured exclusivity. The rest of us, the mousey-haired masses, should stop teasing our ginger neighbours and start admiring these dwindling specimens of mankind. If our ancestors, the orang-utans are proud of being tangoed, then perhaps the human versions should also show their true colours.