When my father was a boy, he encountered a couple of odd names. One was the name of a fellow pupil:
The other, the name of the doctor's receptionist:
Mrs Death (pronounced De-ath)
Meanwhile his mother's first name was Gwenna - a name that I rather like, but, by all accounts, she absolutely hated.
Then there was Aunty Daisy - who was neither an aunt nor actually Christened Daisy...never DID get to the bottom of that one, though! (I've a notion that Daisy might be some connection to the name Margaret, but I'm not positive.)
Finally, there's me: Rachel. Six letters. Nice and simple. Even if you can't read the block capitals on the form, you can at least COUNT them...unless you were the admin team of the University of Salford Acoustics department, who spent two years insisting that my name was RachAel. (More than ten years later and I'm still annoyed by that one...and grateful that I didn't finish my degree because I'd have been even more irritated had my degree certificate been misspelled!)
Interestingly, in my year at secondary school (roughly 60 girls), we actually got off lightly for "unique" names, but boy was there duplication: Three girls called Jo, three called Lucy (admittedly one of those was a Lucy-Ann rather than just Lucy), four Rach(a)els (two of us Rachel Jane!), three Jessicas, three (or was it four?) Catherine/Kathryn/Katherines (yes, each one had a different spelling!), two Sophies, two Amy/Aimees (and just to confuse the issue, Amy had an older sister called Jo who also went there so sometimes she'd cop for Jo instead), a Hannah and an Anna...and that's just what I can remember!
Mind you, the group of girls who started aged eleven when I was finishing off my a-levels contained (so I'm told - I'd actually moved schools by then) five girls called Kylie...yes, as in Minogue.