Finally, in the sixth form, I cut it all off — from waist-length to 1in, overnight. Hideous. Even with an incipiently curvaceous figure, I looked like a boy. And boy, did I underestimate the impact that my hair had on others. I became almost invisible — something I had yearned to be all my childhood. But I soon learnt that it is better to be remembered than to be ignored.
For the next few years, it grew. Then, when I was at art college, I made for Antenna, the hottest place to go for hair extensions in the 1980s (the era of the peroxide-blonde crop and not a single red hair in fashion). On a Wednesday evening, poor, lowly students could be twined and styled by Simon Forbes and his team — provided you let them do whatever they liked. Well, can you guess? Yes, I came out a redhead. Every single time I went back, they made me red again: a variety of shades, but red nonetheless. Was it something I didn’t say? “Er, thanks.” Until finally, the one time I truly loved it was when they matched my own natural auburn hair perfectly. Reality struck. I loved red hair, and none more so than my own.
So I let it grow, and grow, and grow. I conditioned it, cared for it, loved it and have adored being red ever since. Every weekend, I would spend two hours, steaming away under a hooded hairdryer in a fantastically cheap Greek hair salon in Camden, to emerge from my chrysalis looking like Rita Hayworth herself for just four quid. My hair has just the right thickness, natural curl, gloss and shine to turn heads. Now I was a walking hair commercial, instead of a walking monofibre carpet. How the tables do turn to admiration — but only in adulthood. Hair envy is everywhere now. I am 41, have vibrant Titian hair down my back, with no grey in sight. Perhaps it makes me look far more interesting than I really am, but it is the envy of many a woman I know. I think it’s an attitude thing. Perhaps the years of abuse, ridicule and scorn make a fully grown redhead all the stronger for it. Now, I am hard to ignore. The Aveda founder Horst Rechelbacher called me a “lioness”, the late Leigh Bowery “Yseult”, Nicky Clarke a “pre-Raphaelite’s dream” and one of my past magazine editors “Jessica” (mmm, as in Rabbit). Well, a girl could get used to this kind of adoration.
Redheads? We are hot. Lily Cole and Karen Elson parade the ethereal, modern-day otherworldliness of redheaded models. But never forget the sexy, vibrant, characterful reds of the silver screen, from Katharine Hepburn and Maureen O’Hara to Julianne Moore. Now, red is the most requested hair colorant in salons — and just check out the hair-colouring shelf.
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And in love? My greatest love (we will call him the husband now) has a hint of red that would appear should he ever grow a beard, and his mother still has fabulous natural red hair. Ask him when he first fell in love with me — I adore hearing it. He cites a weekend in the Lake District. We had been walking for miles, until I finally gave in, flung myself down on a patch of sunlit green grass and “as the late-afternoon sun flickered on Jo’s copper-red hair next to the lush green” ... I call it my pre-Raphaelite moment.
And true to my creed, when everyone predicted I would wear the redhead’s classic Celtic green velvet for my winter wedding, never one to do as I am told, I fell in love with a beautiful, white, sprigged muslin gown by the Irish designer Sonja Nuttall. I tracked her down and pleaded with her to design my dress. She was hesitant, but we met, and the moment she saw my hair, she agreed. Little did I know that her muse was Tilda Swinton (who can fail to love her redheadedness in Orlando?), and Sonja herself, though brunette, came from a family of redheads. My hair, at last, cut the deal. The effect was so perfect on the day that, with my hair wrapped off my face in four tiny plaits, even our darling vicar referred me as a “pre-Raphaelite nymph”. Oh, Ophelia, baby ...
Have I told you how truly extraordinary my hair is? That in good Titian style, it changes colour to match my mood? On the happiest day of my life, it shone as never before, like a freshly minted copper penny.
Most stylists will confirm that redheads have the thickest cuticles (hence frizziness abounds), and where the average head of hair has about 100,000 strands, reds average 900,000, which is why, an hour later, they are still drying it.
And what heritage? I don’t recall many blondes and brunettes who look down from the gallery walls in such abundance as the romantic and beautiful redheads of the late-19th century, from the mythical temptress Lamia, by John William Waterhouse, the noble queen in Edmund Blair Leighton’s The Accolade and Frank Dicksee’s Yseult to the cruel beauties who mesmerised brave knights in Dicksee’s La Belle Dame sans merci and Chivalry. Even John Collier gave Lady Godiva long auburn tresses instead of the conventional blonde.
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However, Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s paintings of beautiful redheads fending off love-struck suitors in picturesque Mediterranean villas remind me of a dreadful press trip to Tunisia — everywhere I walked, I attracted unsavoury attention, only to find out later that Tunisian prostitutes dye their hair red. After all, it is said: “If you want trouble, find yourself a redhead.”
Of my three children, I have two exquisite blonde girls (both with a slight strawberry hue going on) and one darling auburn-haired boy. William wins affection with his looks alone: chocolate-button eyes, the longest lashes in history and the entire styling team at Hari’s in Knightsbridge at his feet over his richly coloured hair.
More importantly, my son is living proof to me that being a redhead comes from within. Redheads are born, not made. You can’t become one just by dyeing your hair. It’s in the blood, it’s in the genes. He is my hot little temper, quick with laughter and fast with tears — my mirror of emotions. Redheadedness is a state of mind — you’re born to experience it.