The Ginger Nut.

Some people believe ginger to be best served as a side order to sushi.

Sometimes, I’d have to agree.

Although my hair is most definitely veering further towards auburn than tangerine, I still hear whispers of “ginger” from time to time, which, unsurprisingly, does not bother me. This is probably due to such whispers being a seasonal affair as my hair hits the deepest tones of brown in the winter and only hits its peak of naranja after weeks in the sun.

So there I was, August bank holiday, dancing the day away with a rum cocktail in hand, when a man fought his way through the crowd to tell me something. He thought it best to let me know that I was a “fit red head; one of the hardest things to be”. He spent a good while assuring me that I fitted into the “good looking ginger” category, comparing me to Ginny Weasley (a fictional character) and Ed Sheeran (a boy). I laughed, made a joke about being ginger and strolled on. And this, sadly for me, is the norm.

Although such remarks no longer bother me, growing up, I hated my freckles and auburn locks. I wanted nothing more than to wake up looking like Eva Longoria (although I don’t think I’m alone there) and change my entire reflection. However, due to the fact that a friend of mine has the most vibrant of ginger hairs upon her head, and has been lovingly labelled “ginge” by many of her friends, and enjoys it, I have grown to appreciate my titian tones and have forgotten all about my insecurities.

But I’ve also forgotten how serious the topic is too.

Although I believe red hair to be one of those things that you either embrace or sink with, many people have been forced to do the latter without a say. I can’t help but think that if those who heckle gingers in the street switched the hair colour for skin tone or race in their utterances, it would be a different story. I’m not raising the issue of highlights to the same level as a race row, but I really do think the subject could be taken a little more seriously and dealt with using a little more tact. After all, people’s entire school lives have been ruined by such taunts and “Hug a Ginger Day” would not exist if there wasn’t an issue.

But I, too, am to blame for these crimson crimes. I’ve been found to shout “fit ginge!” at the television screen when tangerine tinted men take my fancy (particularly during the Olympics) and I really don’t rate Mick Hucknell’s mop. However, many years on, I am learning to embrace it.

So, the next time you ask someone if they prefer blondes or brunettes, stick red heads in there too. I think you’ll be surprised.

And if you’re still not convinced by ginger hair? I have two words for you:

Emma Stone.

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The Sale.

Although the Summer Sale is somewhat a distant memory and you can barely see past next week, let alone next year and to the January Sales, they do provide me with a bit of a giggle all year round.

Never being very patient and having worked in retail long enough to realise how many times clothes are tried on (and stamped on) before reaching your wardrobe, a sale rail full of clothes seems rather unappealing, despite their £2 price tag. And although I have come across the odd bargain in my few and far between sifting, my relaxed attempts allow me to observe the sale rail and the creatures that frequent them.

There’s that familiar moment where you pretend to go into a shop because you’re interested in the label rather than the reduced rack. You edge closer and closer to the back of the shop, pretending to browse and then act surprised that it exists as you pounce on that £5 leather jacket. Then there’s the moment where you take your items to the till only to be told that they’re not actually on sale. You shuffle awkwardly but buy it anyway, making doubly sure you have the receipt. Then immediately take it back to a different store.

Then there’s the body dysmorphia which occurs during mid-season sales. You are all of a sudden a size 14. A large fits like a glove. You ignore the fact that you are actually a size ten and believe yourself to be up there with the likes of Vivienne Westwood in the sewing stakes.  You have stitching abilities beyond your means and ‘taking it in’ or ‘pinning it’ seems trivial in comparison to a ten pounds and too big blouse. Looking back, you end up looking like a pin cushion. Women do, however, gain powers in other areas, if not upholstery, during these times. We are Olympians when it comes to the sale. Forget the summer games, these reduction rummages are more than a work out. Some of my biggest heroes have been discovered in the corner of Topshop, under a pile of clothes, with a trophy in the shape of a size eleven flatform in hand.

There’s also that fabulous moment where you take an already reduced item to the cashier, only to be told that it’s been knocked down even further. You can’t believe your luck but you act cool, calm and collected, as if you would have bought the item for full price anyway.

But it’s not only women who come up trumps.

Dad’s love a sale as much as they love a Waitrose bargain. When mine goes food shopping, he brings back fifteen packs of penguins on a 2 4 1 offer, along with twelve boxes of Capri-suns and a fishing rod. When he comes back from a clothes sale, he has four pairs of the same trousers in various colours and a kettle, just in case. It’s comedy gold.

But the very best thing about sales?

Is that even Primark has one.

Happy Shopping.

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The Skin.

Forget stockings, suspenders, Calvin Klein’s and bodices; there’s nothing more appealing than nudity.

The human body, after all, is a wonderful thing.

Picture the athletes at this year’s Olympic Games, with their washboard stomachs, bulging biceps and lengthy limbs. The bodies of these Adonis’ are impressive, but you’re not exempt from being considered beautiful too. What about a baby’s toes, your girlfriend’s morning breath, granddad’s wrinkles, a mother’s stretch marks and your boy’s five o’clock shadow?

Nothing beats skin and the stories that it tells, so why cover it up?

In this day and age, much like pictures, clobber is used to tell a thousand words. Everyone is so preoccupied with fashion and material possession that they forget how great it is to let it all hang out.

Don’t get me wrong, we are all clearly very aware of how powerful a vision the naked body is. We’ve based an entire religion and blamed the beginning of the human race on a pair of exposed lovers who bossed the whole naked thing and then ballsed it up (excuse the pun). We take our clothes off to have sex, penis’ are exposed on city streets, men have forever paid to see women strip, we take photos of naked tribeswomen from abroad, an exhibition based on genitals was considered offensive, the same exhibition was acclaimed as a piece of art, there’s an entire website based on naked cooking, we use our bodies as a shock tactic in protest and there is an entire world where clothes are seen as a nuisance.

Imagine if we all took on the attitude of the nudist. Accessorizing would take on a whole new meaning wouldn’t it? Piercings would reach new places and ink would be vital. Not to mention the possibility for  the perfect tan and the importance of pubic hair. I think it sounds ideal. And cheap.

So let’s face it, whether it makes us laugh, cringe or feel tingly inside, we truly are obsessed with the naked body. I’m just happy to have realised that some of the best things in life actually are free.

In this case…

It’s nudity.

So go and get your kit off.

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