This story is part of our Your First Published Article series. A redheaded traveller makes her way solo to the Redhead Days Festival in the Dutch city of Tilburg, where she finds belonging within a group of strangers, united by the quality that makes them different.
Ginger, Ranga, Firecracker, Ginger-nuts, Blue, Carrot-top, Rusty, Red—whether it was flattery or mockery, your redheaded friend had a nickname.
For centuries, the world had something to say about redheads. “They’re witches! Burn them at the stake!” Or “They’re sultry—cast them as the temptress, the villain, the wild one”. Or “Look at those freckles, braces, and curly hair–what nerds!”. And of course, Southpark’s famous line “gingers have no soul” was the butt of all modern-day jokes. One thing was true–we were extraordinary, and this needed celebrating.
There seemed to be a festival for everything and everyone—from beer and cheese to the weird and quirky, like jigsaws and yo-yos. Naturally, redheads needed a weekend to celebrate their genetic mutation.
So, on the last weekend in August, the Dutch city of Tilburg becomes an unlikely mecca for redheads. Everyday tourists with brown, blonde, black, pink, or blue hair wouldn’t be imagining things if they spotted more than the usual one or two redheads on the streets. Like stepping onto a surreal movie set, they’d be bound to feel out of place amidst the thousands who flock to the small town each year for Redhead Days—yes, our very own festival dedicated solely to being red.
Redheads all started with something in common. For some, it was the undercurrent of bullying in our youth; for others, the inevitable phase of wishing our hair were brown. But try as we might, a leopard never changes its spots. That shared trait brought comfort. Like pregnant women exchanging a knowing nod, we did the same as we passed each other in the street–a quiet, unspoken solidarity.
After you’d earned your nickname–be it in jest or endearment–and finally came to terms with your faulty MC1R gene, you began to embrace that head of hair that made you unmistakably, unapologetically you. After all, who else needed more anesthesia on the operating table, felt every shift in temperature, or produced extra vitamin D? It’s not the brunettes, let me tell you. Which is why a festival for our fiery crown wasn’t just celebratory, it was necessary.
In 2005, Dutch artist Bart Rouwenhorst sought 15 red-haired models to participate in an art exhibition. When a crowd of 150 eager volunteers showed up to be involved, it inadvertently launched what would become Redhead Days. Now the festival welcomes flaming cheetos from over 80 countries, celebrating inclusivity, pride, and uniqueness.
This year, the question was whether one more carrot-top look-alike would join them. Solo travel had once felt second nature, coupled with a hearty dose of false youthful confidence, fuelled by alcohol and poor choices. Now, at 34, life with the white picket fence lifestyle had taken over. Like many new mums, the ability to hold adult conversations falters, leaving a brain that no longer feels functional. The thought of travelling alone felt like suddenly being a fish out of water. However, as Facebook photos captured streets flooded with these pale-skinned, copper-topped souls continued to politely assault my feed, resistance felt impossible–a rite of passage perhaps? Would being this close to the world’s largest gathering of redheads and letting a little nerves put you off be a threat to one’s very identity?
At Schiphol train station, two women with fiery curls and broad smiles boarded the train to Tilburg. On the far end of the platform, a strawberry blond male, wearing a 2024 Redhead Days t-shirt, wheeled his bike on. Always being able to spot a fellow red in a crowd, this weekend, my senses felt heightened. Every flash of copper drew my attention like the sirens of an ambulance. Backpack slung over one shoulder, and ticket in hand, I took my seat for the final leg to Tilburg.
Like a wildebeest migration, these redheads descended upon Spoorpark–the weekend’s watering hole–or their annual rendezvous. On the walk from the train station to the park, every passing redhead exchanged a subtle smile–as though we were all in on the same secret. Those solo-traveler nerves started to be overpowered by a teenage-like excitement.
A large “Welcome to Redhead Days Festival” sign hung at the entrance. Near the main stage, an SPF 50+ sunscreen stand glowed under the sun, a couple of gingers slathering themselves with the enchanting elixir. Others, fearing spontaneous combustion under the sun, stayed firmly in the shade. Children pointed excitedly to their hair colour on a large “50 Shades of RED” sign. Displayed in bold, the full spectrum of our world: lava red, rich red, mahogany red, brave red, red wine, even Annie red—everyone was represented.
Clusters of redheads and friends gathered around tables, leaning forward, engaged in chatter. Later, I would discover just how many brave souls (or soulless) had travelled solo. “A Heineken, thanks,” I ordered from the bright, spiky-haired bartender, honouring the well-known Dutch beer. “Where’s the ginger beer?” a Viking-like redhead chuffed, pleased with his dad joke. He was right–our beer should be flowing freely; that would go in the feedback form.
In the queue to buy a ‘Kick-Off Party’ ticket, an inviting smile from a stranger cemented my choice to attend. It was like the smile you share with another new mum when both babies cry at once–not pity, but solidarity. The butterflies that had hijacked my holiday were quietly packing their bags. This small, simple gesture from a stranger with red hair made me feel part of the gang. Not the aloof ‘cool’ gang you’d find in the school cloisters. No, a goofy, awkward, and exceptionally proud one–my kind of gang.
“This is great, isn’t it?” the redheaded stranger asked. “We had such fun last year. In a strange way, it’s like everyone is family here.” He beamed, tugging at his wristband.
That night, hundreds of redheads streamed from Spoorpark to the ‘Kick-Off Party’ at Stadstheater. Walking through the streets of Tilburg made me slightly embarrassed. A man threw his fist up in the air, whilst another redhead merrily skipped along. The leaders of the pack walked tall, laughing, heads held high, easily swapping conversations with those sporting a “1st RHD” sticker. Since becoming a mum, my confidence had waned, and it was confronting to move through a crowd where everyone seemed so self-assured–or at least good at pretending. As strangers stared, I caught myself wondering what they thought. Were we a peculiar sight, or were we inconspicuous? Did we just look like a normal crowd, or was the wave of red unmistakable?
It was at Stadstheater that you got your first taste of how international this festival was. I met copper tops from Texas, gingers from Turkey, strawberry blondes from Germany, and Rangas from Australia–and plenty of proud Dutch. Curly, straight, long, short, buzzed, bearded, young, old, former redheads, dyed redheads–everyone was there. People dressed casually; no one dolled up to the nines. Laughter and a mix of accents and languages bubbled from tables. Conversations in Dutch, German, Spanish, French, Italian, and English were heard–a nod to the effort people made to attend the world’s largest redhead gathering.
Alcohol helped loosen the lips–and hips–of many, and soon the dance floor unmistakably resembled a vibrant Red Sea. That initial anxious intruder had returned, and insecurity plagued my mind. “Just say hi to someone,” I urged myself on. Outside, two women stood with drinks in their hands, scanning the crowd. Without hesitation, one reached out to greet me, shaking a hand firmly, “Hi, where are you from? We are Canadian.” I returned the handshake with a nervous admission about still building up the courage to say hi. Giggling, they both said, “We saw!”
The two quickly became my Fred and George Weasley to my Ron for the entire weekend (alright, one wasn’t a redhead). The older woman turned out to be the only redhead in the family. Her brother had paid for her to come to the festival after she had seen the hype on Facebook and dreamed of attending. Her niece was her supportive companion, venturing out of Canada for her first trip to Europe.
The energy of the dance floor continued well into the early hours as a group of strangers with red hair danced together–hopping, bopping, swinging, and swaying to the beat of ‘90s cover songs. Hands flailed, movements were out of sync, and it was easy to see why gingers had earned the reputation as awkward and goofy.
Back at Spoorpark the following day, we continued to celebrate being red in the most wonderfully unique way. In the light of day, all 50 shades of red were now obvious, gleaming in the sunlight. Everyone showed off their nationality with stickers displaying their country’s flag. The familiar smell of sunscreen wafted through the air as gingers signed up for the day’s various events. “Speed friending” proved an excellent way to meet and greet this eclectic bunch. Five minutes with each person revealed why they had travelled to the festival. “I saw it on Facebook and said, ‘I HAVE to go,’” said an auburn-haired visitor from Germany. A blonde supporter of red said, “I’m red in spirit.” The man with a bright ginger beard added, “I thought it would be fun to come.” “We were meant to be in Brussels this weekend, but when we heard this was on, we changed our plans,” said the only two Australians I met all weekend.
At a “Paint Picasso Style” workshop, I overheard two Americans being interviewed by a YouTube crew. Now white-haired ladies, they wore personalised t-shirts reading “Redhead since 1967” and “Redhead since 1961,” complete with pictures of themselves as children. “Why have you come to the festival?” the interviewer asked. “Well, we were teased a lot as children. It’s so nice to come together and celebrate being us. I learned to love my hair. I loved being a redhead–we’re gifted,” they replied. This sentiment was shared by many, as the majority I spoke to referred to their days of ridicule and mockery at the expense of their hair.
That night, with my Fred and George Weasley and new friends made at “Speed Friending,” we once again spilled into the streets of Tilburg for the annual Redhead Pub Crawl. An older man dressed in a Scottish kilt and a head of thick white hair held up a bagpipe, as the notes rang out. A crowd of over 500 moved in unison behind him. Bursts of conversation, spontaneous clapping, and flying high-fives filled the streets. I snapped wide-eyed, open-mouthed, hands-in-the-air type photos with strangers.
It felt incredible to look out over the crowd and witness 500 strong redheads spanning the streets, victorious in their pursuit of celebration. My cheeks flushed red, and a grin firmly planted on my face. I had fully leaned into the one thing that makes us, us.
At the start of the festival, it felt strange to be surrounded by so many redheads. But over the course of the weekend, it became clear how comfortable people felt in their own skin. Speaking with others, I found my feelings were shared. Many described a sense of belonging and a mutual understanding. “I think it’s really beautiful–people coming from abroad to be together,” said a young girl with flowing ginger locks from the Netherlands.
For most, hair colour doesn’t define them. But for redheads, it weaves itself wholly into our identity. It is something we often reject, then accept, and eventually embrace. At some point in a redhead’s life, feeling alone, bullied, ugly, or like an outsider has been the norm. That night, we danced amongst the crowd of merry red, filling each pub along the strip with fiery energy. It felt powerful to be part of a crowd so inclusive, welcoming, and proud to be red–turns out we do have a soul, after all.
