Hang Tight

I promised myself when I started online dating that if a man lived within 25 miles of me and was a better than 90% match, I would read his entire profile and his answers to at least 50 of the inane questions, no matter what he looked like in his profile pic.

This lasted approximately three minutes.

Me, I look pretty good in pictures. I know this because I'm vain, I like getting my picture taken, and I save more than I delete. I realize we aren't all photogenic, but so many men look like Lon Chaney in that first take you have to wonder about their social lives. If they had any friends, wouldn't there be at least one they'd trust enough to ask, "Hey, what do you think?" And this good, trustworthy friend would say, "Dude, NO! Just... no."

So I've ix-nayed based on the ic-pay plenty. Conversely, I've fallen deeply in love with a guy from his photo, only to click "X" seconds later because he uses weather for whether or do for due. I've put the kibosh on men for posing with hang loose hands; for golfing; for wearing hats in all their pictures; for watching Two and a Half Men; for living in Aurora, for wearing a sweater vest, for being from Florida, for drinking Coors, for wearing hats in all their pictures.

The hat thing bears repeating because it means they're hiding male pattern baldness and if they're hiding it they're not confident enough for me. Be bold with your bald, baby! Jean-Luc Picard, anyone? Kelly Slater? Stanley Tucci? THE ROCK?

[Insert sound of me purring like a lioness]

My best friend is astonished - shocked - horrified, really, is the appropriate word - at how much I like bald white guys. I try to explain it and she waves me off. We just have different tastes. She likes green chili slathered all over everything she eats and I love me a chrome dome! Is it all the Kojak I watched on TV as a kid? Or Sean Connery's Scottish accent?

Given the relentless teasing and shaming they get, I equate what is simply my natural proclivity for baldies to open-mindedness and depth of character. Yay, me! I recently agreed to meet one on a weeknight because he looked a Jason Statham-like kind of sizzling hot in his photos and - BONUS - he's a musician who rides a motorcycle and likes the wilderness. [purring lioness sounds, again]

We met at a blues bar where a jam session was about to start. He knew everyone, and was clearly popular, and I was excited to see him play and sing. He smelled nice and even his teeth were good! The first thing out of his mouth when we met was, "Your pictures don't do you justice." I mean. It was all just shooting stars and magic and when he got up onstage the way he wailed on the guitar and crooned, I should've been swooning.

But none of these things mattered because he was wearing a crewneck undershirt, visible because his collared shirt was unbuttoned. Just the top two buttons, but I couldn't get past it.

Experts say that viscerality is legitimate; it's what makes us human. Still. I felt shallow driving away that night and had to do a serious self-talk to get back on track. At the beginning of the online dating experiment I promised myself to be selective and take my time and trust my instincts. This isn't supposed to be quick and it isn't supposed to be easy.

At least there's no shortage of smooth-skulled fellas out there. The right one for me is just somewhere down the road, his undershirt safely concealed from my discerning eye.