Child’s Play

Some of you may not know that I was Chucky this Halloween. Now you do, and you need to know because I’ve decided it means something…I’m not sure what, but maybe we’ll get to that. I wasn’t Chucky because I’m a fan of Child’s Play or Bride of Chucky or the Chucky franchise. It’s just that when you have orange hair, your last minute costume choices are limited. The standards are boring: Madeline, Pippi Longstocking, Peter Pan, Little Red Riding Hood, Lucille Ball, Raggedy Ann. None of those options are very scary or very sexy, which are the two goals for Halloween, right?

Mostly Halloween is about sex. It makes sense that one of the last pagan bacchanlias in Western culture would be sex based. Of course, I was feeling too smart for the whole raunchy tradition. I’d read too many feminist complaints about the holiday. I didn’t want to be sexy cop, sexy nurse, sexy Darth Vader, sexy Watermelon. In the past I’ve slightly eschewed the sexy girl requirement by dressing as my favorite characters, but let’s be honest, dressing as Pris from Blade Runner wasn’t all about my love of the movie. Once I was drunk, I apparently described myself as, “just your basic pleasure model.” This year I would turn things on their head–I would be sexy, cool by being repulsive. Classic reverse psychology. Spin the famous red head dial and that leaves you with Carrot Top, Conan O’Brian or Chucky.

My Hair

Yesterday a homeless man approached me and said, “Wow, I thought you were a guy, and then I saw that thing in your hair.” Then he asked me for some change. I was wearing a dress and a headband. He really needs to work on his pitch.

History of the Pixie Cut from Betty Mae Vintage!

What’s worse is I’m in the long laborious process of growing my hair out, and I thought I was reaching a point where it’s fairly obvious that I’m female. When it was a pixie cut, I wore heels, makeup, earrings and dresses all the time just to drive the point home. I felt sort of like a drag queen, wearing an exaggerated costume of femininity. I’m sensitive about making it known that I’m a lady, and I think this started in elementary school.

In second grade I got this bowl cut because I was really into kickball. I found a poem that I wrote at the time. I remember writing it during one of those art class days. Reagan had cut all the art classes in elementary schools, so maybe twice a year we would get an art teacher who would teach anything from Native American singing to poetry. Since they were only there for a day, we would spend most of the class taking in the oddities of the teacher. Were ponchos clothing?

My Red People

I often feel simultaneously insecure and superior at auditions. I’m nervous, questioning why I go through this, and way early. The role exists in my head and in my room, where I practice the lines, until I enter the room full of my competition. Suddenly I understand why I’ve been called in and what they are looking for. Then I try to figure out how I can stand out but also embody exactly what they want. Usually it comes down to my head. No one else in that room (at least it hasn’t happened yet) has real red hair. This means without opening my mouth they will assume many things that will sometimes work to my advantage.

People assume I’m feisty, fiery, hot-tempered, and quirky. I live with red hair prejudice on a daily basis. I tried to tell my black friend that I knew what being a minority was like because of my hair. I am only 4% of the world population. She, very understandably, wasn’t having it, but there are some similarities. People try to set me up with their other redheaded friends. The idea is we’ll see a red glow coming from each other’s heads and fall instantly in love. At one point in history people lynched red heads because we are all witches. Oh, and stupid people think all redheads look the same. I’ve been told I look like Molly Ringwald, Peter Pan, Conan O’brien, Leprechauns, Lindsay Lohan, the Wendy’s Logo, and Meryl Streep, which when you’re an actor is like being told you look like God.

My red people made the news recently because scientists predict that in 100 years redheads will be extinct. It’s a recessive gene, and redheads aren’t mating with other redheads, probably because redheaded boys are not fierce: they are Ron Weasley. They look like they still eat Elmer’s glue. Redheaded boys know that they look like this, so sometimes they overcompensate, shaving their heads and getting a lot of tattoos. I don’t want to have children with Ron Weasley or neck-tat man, but this doesn’t stop redheaded boys in bars. “We should procreate.” Or if they don’t have red hair, “You know, my grandfather had red hair….” Good for him. These boys probably just want to see if the carpet matches the drapes. In high school I once humored friends with a quick peak in the girls bathroom, but it felt cheap, like putting on a freak show.

To avoid the freak show that is being an extra I’ve come to any easy solution, stop buying birth control. I need to save my people from extinction.