Next week will be worse, because I'll have nothing to keep my mind from obsessing over symptoms that will be unrelated to possible pregnancy. At least I won't be ovulating.

I started a new journal 'burb, "Don't Call Me Carrot-Top!" I was really surprised when I realized that there was no collection of journals for redheads, so I whipped one up and announced it to a couple of journal writers' mailing lists. To my surprise, the purpose of such a collection was promptly called into question. Is hair color so important? Did I really want to be defined by my hair?

It really got me thinking, and eventually I came up with the answer. Like it or not, I am, at least partially, defined by the fact that I have red hair. It was something inescapable for me; both of my parents were redheads. When I made my dramatic entry into the world, the doctor's words were, "She's a redhead!" When I developed jaundice in my early weeks, my mother's concerns were lighter because, as she said, "Your yellow skin went so well with your red head!"

In school, I couldn't avoid the teacher's gaze. If I obeyed, the teachers noticed me and proclaimed me a "good girl." If I misbehaved, I was pronounced a "firebrand" or a "hotheaded redhead," and I was punished all the more quickly. I remember those early days well; I couldn't get away with anything. When I passed notes, I was immediately caught. When I hadn't done my homework, the teacher noticed immediately that my hand didn't go up to answer questions. I spent quite a bit of time in the "quiet corner," I'm afraid.

It didn't take me long to realize that, while punishments would come quickly to people like me, rewards could come just as rapidly, and I straightened up. Of course, by that time I was in middle school - and surrounded by other redheads! In the flute section alone in my middle school band, there were five of us with red hair. I don't know why, but Williamsport, Maryland, seemed to have a great deal more than its share of redheads. Perhaps it was something in the water.

Anyway, we all still got attention. Too much attention, really, and still either extremely positive or extremely negative. In fact, if I remember correctly, of the five redheaded flutists, two of us graduated in the top twenty of our class, and two of the other three dropped out before our senior year. A little too coincidental, if you ask me.

Everywhere I go, my hair is the first thing on which I am commented. I have always been the redheaded pianist, the redheaded waitress, the redheaded teacher. It's my most obvious trait, and so people do tend to use it to define me. They make assumptions about my temper based on the color of my ponytail. If I allow myself to get upset over the assumptions, they smile as if I have proved their point for them.

My brother is also a redhead. He was also something of a "firebrand" in school, though I tried to warn him: "Hey! Just keep your mouth shut, and follow my lead!" He refused, and before he had even started high school, he had a run-in with the vice-principal. There were three other boys involved in the incident (strewing toilet paper through the halls of the school during band camp), but guess which one the vice-principal remembered and decided to take a strong disliking to? Yep. The redhead.

Yes, hair is a transient thing. I could dye it black tomorrow and, aside from the oddness of how it would look against my complexion, I could evade being the first one noticed by anybody walking in the room. I could lose all my hair. I will eventually go gray. None of these change the fact that my hair color shaped my experiences during my formative years. I was a redhead while my personality was developing, and I'd be a fool not to acknowledge that. I am who I am because I am a redhead. It's as much a part of me as my name.

Storytime today saw us hearing two stories about dinosaurs. What is it with kids and prehistoric beasts? They laughed at jokes that they didn't even understand.