At age two,
The strangers flocked to my mother,
Cooing over the stroller.
They ask, "How long does it take to curl her hair?"
My ringlets fall in strawberry spirals,
Making even Shirley Temple jealous.
She tells them they are merely freshly washed.
Who in their right mind curls a two year old's hair anyway?
At age four,
I am no longer encased in my protective stroller,
And humanity has taken tacit permission
To run their fingers through my strands at any given moment.
After all, I am only 2% of the world's population.
Is that not consent enough to touch my child's body?
Their hands are abrasive and painful to my autistic skin,
But I smile and twirl for them like the polite little girl that I am.  
Long before I knew the name,
I was taught that the world fetishizes redheads.
I was taught that being rare is forfeiting your right to your own body.
I'm 5 now, and the teachers tell me I have angel's kisses on my face,
That freckles are the touch of tiny winged souls upon my skin.
Young me shudders at the thought of seemingly hundreds of dead spirits caressing my cheek bones.
I did not ask the teachers about my freckles or comment on their presence.
I already know it is not my place to discuss my body.
That right is reserved for others.
I'm 8 years old the first time I hear the phrase "Carrot Top"
And 10 before I hear "Volcano Head."
At least the latter indicates I'm not to be trifled with.
We're playing the elimination game in class,
And "Stand up if you have red hair" is the equivalent of calling my name.
I'm 12 when "Ginger's have no souls" is suddenly hurled at me.
I wonder when I exchange "kissed by angels" for becoming a vampire.
Perhaps it's part of the transition?
This is the age of growing self awareness,
The age where it's really beginning to stick that I am alien and different.
I am so tired of being asked if I am adopted because my hair is red
But my entire family's is brown.
I tell them I get it from my grandfather.
I do not tell them that he is the one who used to drag my grandmother
Through the house by her hair
Or how his drunken rages would force my mom and her siblings
To crawl under their front porch in search of safety.
I do not tell them that my mom saw him shoot himself when she was 19
Or that she hasn't opened a tin of biscuits since.
Mother reminds me almost daily that I am the spitting image of him,
Leaving me wondering what else I might've inherited.
I touch my face in the mirror, haunted by the sins of a man I've never met but whose reflection I apparently share.
I write letters to his ghost, asking him if he understands this affliction.
Why do they touch me?
Why do they buzz like bees, these strangers on the street
Around my hair?
Why do they think it is acceptable to drink from my reserves when I am dying of thirst for oxygen and personal space?
I am 16, still naive in my social perceptions, often misunderstanding the norms.
Autism has accelerated my intellect but delayed my emotions.
I am licking a minion themed popsicle with childlike enthusiasm when mother snaps a photo.
I post it to my newfound Facebook account,
Proudly sharing my joy.
Over the course of a week, I receive more and more friend requests from unknown internet men.
I am confused until mom tells me my gleeful ice cream moment could be interpreted as simulating a *** act.
"But I am too young," I tell her. She smiles humorlessly.
She knew what I would soon learn.
At 17 I'm informed that "redhead" is a category on PornHub,
That my beautiful affliction is as it has always been,
A searchable object for other's gratification.
18, baby faced and lonely, He finds me.
I still get mistaken for a 12 year old and this 42 year old man finds me ****.
I wish I could say I knew better.
I wish I could say I ran as fast as I could,
But oh how naive was I to believe that he meant what he said when he told me he meant me no harm, he wanted nothing from me.
I now know his behavior is called grooming.
He whispered his nickname for me as he ***** my bleary eyed body.
"Red," he called me.
Red like my hair, like the first sentence out of his mouth at every gathering
"She's a redhead."
Red like my volcano, how he said he never wanted to see me angry.
Red like my personality, how he liked "a woman in charge,"
Which was synonymous with do all the emotional and physical labor.
It took me a year to break free of his tangled, twisted, traps.
I was today years old when the man in the car followed me on my way to school.
Armed with nothing but mace and the attitude to back it up,
I gave him the look of "You can come get me, but I swear you'll regret trying."
My hair like a siren call to all wayward souls.
They dock in my port.
Red hair means they will fetishize me from 2 to 4 to 8, 10, 16, 20,
And 100 years from now the bones and dust of these keratin strands
Will cry out from the ground I am buried beneath
In support of the next child blessed or cursed with this beautiful affliction,
And all others whose rarity is seen as permission.
Hear me now when I tell you
My hair is a warning.
This redhead is fully loaded,
Is angry, enraged, head fully lit, and heart on fire,
Tongue fueled by two decades worth of injustice and the suffering before me.
Redhead means don't ******* touch me.