I have a confession to make. I know that by doing this I will probably lose a lot of readers and possibly even friends. I’m risking this fully knowing that I will most likely be excommunicated from my family because they are heavily against this type of thing. And I know that most of you will lose a lot of respect for me but it’s something that’s been weighing heavily on my mind and I think it’s time to unload the burden.

I, Kasey, am addicted to Gingers.

I love them. I’ve tried to deny myself over the years and have maintained that my perfect man will own a luscious, thick, dark mane on the top of his head but in secret I can’t help my wandering eye that checks out every copper headed male that passes my direction. Some of you are not surprised by this admission, you’ve seen it coming over the years and while I’m sure you prayed that it was just some sort of phase I was going through, I’m here to tell you that it’s not going away. I was born this way.

Looking back I should have seen this coming. My first kiss, on the cheek, at the age of six in the tall grass at the private Christian school I attended, was with a boy named Jeremiah who had fiery, red hair that went well with the freckles that were scattered along his pale arms and face. Goodness I loved that boy, as far as any six year old can love another that is, and what drew me to him was the gorgeous red that sat atop his head. Any other boy after that in my school age years had light hair, not quite auburn, but light enough to keep my addiction fed and the questions at bay because even then I knew it was considered a problem.

I ventured back into the red zone a few years ago with my college boyfriend. By this time South Park had already branded Gingers soulless and the horror of being caught with one was damaging. So the teasing escalated quickly and I’m sure everyone thought my attraction to him was a joke, something that couldn’t possibly be true. I could see the horror and concern in their eyes and I laughed it off when we broke up stating, “At least I won’t end up with a Ginger,” I hated saying those words.  They felt bitter on my tongue. So when the most recent ex had lingers of red tint in his hair, it was pointed out immediately. I claimed publicly that it was only in his facial hair and something that could be lived with but in reality, I loved it, I wished he’d had more. I loved seeing the shiny, red tone that reflected off the sunlight when he started to let the few wisps of hair he had on his face go a few days too long. I hated the days he shaved, all that beautiful red was gone, clogging up my sink.

Any movie, television show or band that I watch or listen to I find that I’m immediately attracted to the lone Ginger in the group, because there’s never more than one (unless you’re watching Harry Potter). I can’t help it, Prince Harry, Danny Stevens, Rupert Grint, Conan O’Brien, Ed Sheeran and Eddie Redmayne who, by the way, has the perfect name for one. There’s just something about them, they draw me in and I find them irresistible. Gingers make my heart skip a beat, palms sweat and I usually stumble over my words. If you are a copper-locked male (sorry ladies) I’ve probably thought of you in your skivvies. There’s nothing in the world that compares to a good looking Ginger.

Why am I admitting this now? Because I know there are others out there, like me, that are harboring secret feelings for their red-headed peers and I want to them to know they are not alone. You don’t have to feel ashamed. It’s a perfectly natural feeling to have and I’ve seen some people live perfectly respectable lives with a red headed counterpart. The stigma may never go away but is it worth denying ourselves the beauty of red locks? I think not, especially if the rumors of their extinction hold any truth to them.

So grab your nearest red head and try it out, I promise you won’t be disappointed.