Redheads are aliens, goddess and gods, first people, carrot tops (Which I often thought was green), going extinct, but a genetic accident!!! I protest. Maybe a genetic mutant-the "ginger gene". Ah.


A mutation in the gene that gives redheads their unique hair color and signature fair skin leads researchers to believe that redheads are more sensitive to pain. The gene, called the melanocortin-1 receptor, produces melanin in those with blonde, brown and black hair, but it produces pheomelanin in redheads after it has been mutated, according to The New York Times. The study explains that the mutated MC1R leads to an increased sensitivity to pain because the MC1R gene is part of a family of receptors that include pain receptors in the brain. Though the MC1R mutation can also occur in brunettes, it's much less common.


Melanin, the skin pigment that darkens with sun exposure to provide either a tan or freckles. People with red hair have a chemically different type of melanin than people with dark hair. Redheads' melanin is more vulnerable to a type of DNA-damaging stress from the sun's ultraviolet rays.

The scientists found this out by taking melanin-producing melanosomes from red and black human hair and testing them with a high-tech laser. They found that melanosomes from black hair were only affected by high-energy ultraviolet-B (UV-B) light, but melanosomes from red hair were affected by ultraviolet A (UV-A) and UV-B radiation suggesting that exposure to everyday UV-A and UV-B levels might disturb red hair pigments and lead to higher rates of skin cancer. UV-B rays are associated with sunburn and UV-A rays can actually penetrate and damage skin even without a burn. Specifically, pigments from the carrot-top crowd were more likely to create free radicals that harm DNA and possibly cause cancer, the new research showed. The finding was presented in August at the 230th national meeting of the American Chemical Society.

So, with that and the fact that I am a mutant, alien goddess with red-hair and my spiecies are losing ground on this planet, I leave you with this....

Ode To Redheads
By Tom Robbins

How are we to explain the power these daughters of ancient Henna have over us bemused sons of Eros?

Red hair is a woman's game.

The harsh truth is, most red-haired men look like blonds who've spoiled from lack of refrigeration. They look like brown-haired men who've been composted. Yet that same pigmentation that on a man can resemble leaf mold or junk yard rust, a woman wears like a tiara of rubies.

Not only are female redheads frequently lovely but theirs is a loveliness that suggests both lust and danger, pleasure and violence, and is, therefore, to the male of the species virtually irresistible. Red O red were the tresses of the original femme fatale.
Of course, much of the "fatale" associated with redheads is illusory, a stereotypical projection on the part of sexually neurotic men. Plenty of redheads are as demure as rosebuds and as sweet as strawberry pie. However, the mere fact that they are perceived to be stormy, if not malicious, grants them a certain license and a certain power. It's as if bitchiness is their birthright. By virtue of their coloration, they possess an innate permit to be terrible and lascivious, which, even if never exercised, sets them apart from the remainder of womankind, who have traditionally been expected to be mild and pure.

Now that women are demolishing those old misogynistic expectations, will redheads lose their special magic, will Pippi Longstocking come to be regarded as just one of the girls? Hardly. To believe that blondes and brunettes are simply redheads in repressive drag is to believe that UFOs are kiddie balloons. All redheads, you see, are mutants.

Whether they spring from genes disarranged by earthly forces or are "planted" here by overlords from outer space is a matter for scholarly debate. It's enough for us to recognize that redheads are abnormal beings, bioelectrically connected to realms of strange power, rage, risk and ecstasy.

What is your mission among us, you daughters of ancient Henna, you agents of the harvest moon? Are those star maps that your freckles replicate? How do you explain the fact that you live longer than the average human? Where did you get such sensitive skin? And why are your curls the same shade as heartbreak?

Alas, inquiry is futile: Either they don't know or they won't say -- and who has the nerve to pressure a redhead? We may never learn their origin or meaning, but it probably doesn't matter. We will go on leaping out of our frying pans into their fire, grateful for the opportunity to be titillated by their vengeful fury, real or imagined, and to occasionally test our erotic mettle in the legendary inferno of their passion.

Redheaded women! Those blood oranges! Those cherry bombs! Those celestial shrews and queens of copper! May they never cease to stain our white-bread lives with super-natural catsup.


Peace.
Rustic