Generations of gingers have burdened my family with fiery attitudes and overly assertive personalities. My redheaded grandmother was a strong-willed, intense Hungarian. My mother is the same. I was also born possessed by a deep desire for self-control, perfection, and require frequent reminders to take my surly, ‘know-it-all’ attitude down a notch. Hating my red hair and the hot-headed temperament that comes with it has always been at the top of a list too long and sad to print here.

I tried being a brunette to blend in and wanted to be blonde because they have more fun. I had a purple hair phase, a pink phase, and tried behavior modification but eventually gave in to what all strong-willed, stubborn individuals with red hair do not come to easily accept; No matter how hard we try, we cannot change something beyond our control. We’re stuck being complicated, genetic mutants.

Our superpowers begin in variations of the MC1R gene that sits on our 16th chromosome. These recessive, genetic alterations contribute to why only 1-2% of the world’s population can claim to have red hair. Our high concentration of pigment makes our mane thicker than other color strands and often delays it from going gray. Having red hair requires more local anesthesia at the dentist’s office and we feel more thermal pain, especially when taking a cold plunge after winter-runoff. Only 10-12% of redheads are left-handed and, of that, only .000135% have blue eyes, too. Some of us are triple threats.

Redheaded oddities often come at a social cost. Red hair burdens us with historical stereotypes and we use this to supply us with our special charm. We’re an omen of bad luck, feisty in bed, quick to anger, eccentric, untrustworthy, a soulless vampire, or influenced by the devil himself. We’re said to be so emotionally draining that only hearty individuals can survive in our presence. Our sharp tongue is blunted only by our sarcasm or wit, and we can slay even the most intimidating individual with the fire dancing in our eyes. Whatever temperament or constitution assigned to us, redheads know that some unique traits and unfounded folklore will inevitably be passed down to the next generation. There’s not much we can do to stop the storm.

When my husband and I were ready to have children of our own, my parents warned me of what was to come by sharing stories of my own spirited childhood. I dismissed their comments as a blurred history from a mad Hungarian and a dad who is ripe with exaggerated tales. In a surprise to no one, I ended up giving birth to the most bold and independent redhead we’ve encountered in decades. Her personality is filled with all the passion one expects from a redhead, and she continues to push, pull, question, and argue her way into adulthood. As mother and daughter approach this new phase together, I struggle to navigate our intense emotional relationship that has been built on a tightrope made of our raw, unfiltered temperaments. Now it’s time for me to channel our wild flames into something that will eventually sprout healthy and divine, much like a seasoned firefighter knows will happen after a hundred-year drought.

I went to the source for some advice and asked my mother how to step back from my idealistic, overwhelming, and now unrealistic, day-to-day parenting. At first, my mom laughed and laughed for a long time. She finally quieted down when I vowed to stomp out of the room like a petulant child. She chuckled again and then an earnestness swept over her when she let me know she’s been waiting years to hear me ask this question. I imagine this is my mother’s way of dancing the redheaded tango with me, too.

My mother gave me a long hug in silence that answered all I need to know for now and it wrapped me whole. I saw the deep creases of love in her face, felt the craters of unwavering support in her arms, and sensed the power of fierce, family loyalty in her strong legs. Finally, I was beginning to understand where it all came from and decided that hating my red hair and hot-headed temperament can be crossed off my long, sad list of things I don’t like. In the meantime, I will work hard at patiently waiting for my own daughter to come to me questions of her own and hope by then I have learned to take my own ‘know-it-all’ attitude down a notch for everyone’s pleasure.

Andrea Chacos lives in Carbondale, balancing work and happily raising three children with her husband. She strives to dodge curveballs life likes to throw with a bit of passion, humor, and some flair. She can be reached at andreachacos.com.