Leila McKinnon: 'Let's ditch the word 'ranga''

The first thing I knew about my son was that he had red hair. Even before I knew he was a boy. The obstetrician saw the top of his head shining down at him and said "oh hello, I think you’ve got a little redhead here". And it was then, right in the middle of one of the most important jobs of my life, that I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with my grandmother, in another hospital, eighteen years before.
 
Mary McKinnon was a tiny, fun loving, earthy woman. She talked to animals, loved fancy dress parties, and — having grown up on a farm in tough times — scraped the cake bowl so clean there was nothing left to lick. Once upon a time she had been a brilliant redhead, as had her father and brother. But in January 1995, grey haired, and tired, she lay on her hospital bed and seemed apologetic for dying. "I do love you, you know", she said, and I told her I knew that, and I loved her too. What else was there to say?