A little-known fact: My very first boyfriend was a redhead. We dated for about 36 hours in kindergarten. He let me play with his blocks and I’m pretty sure he let me cut in line at the monkey bars. He dumped me by snack time the next day.

I’m not going to apologize for stereotyping here, because the type-cast redhead is my favorite kind of redhead. Maybe it’s their tendency towards passion, or perhaps it’s their propensity for craftiness and cleverness that makes me feel like they’re my perfect fit. Whatever it is, there’s something about redheads and me that just seems to click. As the aptly named Amber G. once pointed out: I have a type.

It would seem that my love for the ginger-tressed goes beyond housemates, soul sisters, and BFFs, because I’m nothing short of obsessed with the inferno-haired Neko Case. I’d call her a tough cookie, but that would undermine her. In terms of cookies, she’s more like a brick, which I guess is appropriate, all things considered.

No one does eerie dust-bowl balladry like her and with lung-power the strength of a cyclone, her vocals leave me happily blown away, rolling in the tumbleweeds. Too romantic for you? Then listen:

Basically, my life is going to totally suck until Neko Case becomes my best friend. Until that time, I’ll just see her perform any chance I get… like next Monday at the Fonda with The New Pornographers, for a start.

And a little photo montage of some of my favorite Gingers. Those who have dyed their hair blond or brown don’t make the cut. Those who have lost their hair due to time and circumstance do.

No photos here were taken by yours truly. Sorry.