Power. Connection. Rules. Identity. For me, being a redhead meant that I was given something extra. I was different from others and therefore I had to live differently. My father was a redhead but it was my mother (a dark haired) that taught me about being a redhead. I vaguely remember the books that we had in our house. The important ones had redheads as the main characters. They were the fun ones, the changers, the people in silent power, and even the secret or not so secret destroyers of lives. They were those with divinity or tantamount to daemons. Lots of times they were both. This was often the same in the real world as well. An Asian woman once asked my parents if they wouldn’t like to have my hair be a different color. “Like what?” was their question back, “Like black.” was her response. In her culture red hair meant something bad. Another time my mom and I were in downtown Tucson, at dusk, waiting for the bus. A man waiting with us looked at the sunset and