On my lunch break a fine young silken haired hipster boy stopped me on Madison and 42nd street.

“Yes. Hello. We’re doing some research. I was wondering, how much do you spend on your haircut?”

I was wearing a pair of gray pants and a blue t-shirt. I had my hair pulled back in a ponytail. It was the type of ponytail that allowed for puffy parts, like they were covering cartoon-like welts. Little frizzy explosions sprouted from my hairline like weeds. My roots were showing. I wore mascara but that’s about all I had going for my face.

It wasn’t up until we made locked-in eye contact did it occur to me that he was actually speaking to me, and more importantly, to me about my hair.

“Oh my God, nothing. I am so low maintenance. I once threw away a 300-dollar gift certificate for highlights at one of the snottiest salons in the city. I am definitely NOT your audience.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Sadly, I am not kidding.”

“Ok, well thank you for your time.”

Yesterday, I found myself wondering if my growing fingernails would bring me some of whatever girl juice I am apparently missing. (Not that kind of girl juice perverts.) I think it’s safe to say that this may never happen. And other than having some boobage, I think I’d fail the Girl Test.