Among the numerous readers of my blog to whom I am related by blood or marriage, my sister-in-law, F, is not one.
So when we spoke on the phone earlier this week for the first time in about a month, she asked how my love life was going.
“Not great,” I sighed–informing her about my recent spate of rejection.
“Huh,” she responded, contemplative. “How’s your hair?”
“Kinda bad,” I told her. “It needs a cut.” I was tired, and possibly distracted by some blanket-laden homeless person on Central Avenue; I at first did not absorb her question’s implication. But then I did.
“Are you suggesting that men are rejecting me because of my hair?”
“I’m just asking,” she said. “I mean, I saw you recently so I know you’re not fat. Maybe you’re having a bad hair year.”
Let’s put aside for a moment any questions about the likelihood of bad hair lasting for an entire year, and allow me to provide some context. First of all, F and I have similar hair: she’s Italian and I’m Jewish and both of us have seriously thick, coarse and texturally schizophrenic manes to show for our respective ethnicities. Second of all, having dated my brother since I was five years old, F is the closest thing I’ve got to a sister and has therefore earned permission to tell me things no one else can.
But back to completely inane perceptions of what makes us more or less attractive.