As the favourite butt of primary school jokes, I spent my formative years dreaming of relocating to Ireland where I'd heard that nearly everyone was a redhead.
The thought of being surrounded by a tribe of dopplegangers was my idea of heaven, and I watched enviously as my friends brushed their long brown or blonde locks and imagined how everything would be better if I didn't have a flaming flare beaconing from my head.
I adored the film Pippy Longstocking, which even featured a song about a "freckle face redhead girl you wanna know", but I knew that in my pocket of Melbourne suburbia, all a ginger mane did was draw the mean kids' attention.
In my teens I thought hair dye would be the answer to blending in, but going brunette without learning about make-up led to a deathly pastiness. It was an important breakthrough in embracing what you've got - I let my hair grow back naturally and have never touched a hair dye again.
As I matured, I got on with life and stopped giving my ginger colouring any real thought - but when I heard about Melbourne's first anti-bullying Ginger Pride Rally, I had to go along. I couldn't die wondering what it would feel like to look like everyone else - even just for one morning.