I have always loved red hair.
It sparkles like the sun’s rays on a running stream.
Locks of crimson, scarlet, even pomegranate drew my eye.
There are no redheads in my family.
I used to dream (hope) I would have a redheaded child, even though my husband had the black hair, eyebrows and eyes of a figure in a Fayum mummy painting.
Our son was born with sable hair. By his eighth week, it had fallen out and he was bald. I would carry him to the window to try to see the new color. No dice and I gave up. After a while, it came in honey blonde.
Our next son did have dark red hair and I thought “Voila!” It fell out too and grew back platinum.
I continued to admire redheads.
I loved to see photos of redhead festivals. One didn’t know where to look first! It was a cornucopia of color!
The fiery-colored Bibas brothers and their mother are presumed dead.
Their coral hair probably helped mark them for death. They had just become too iconic, too well-known, too loved.
If we close our eyes, we can see the baby laugh in wonder and joy at a toy or a funny face.
Then, we wake.
