I've got no game.
No, really.
If attracting the gender of one's choice were a cola, I'd be Diet Rite. If the ability were a state, I'd be Nebraska.
My dear friend Kat has selflessly slapped me upside the head many a time for ruining potentially successful conversations with cute dudes. Following her advice, I've tried repeatedly to appear polite, kind and intriguingly shy in their presence.
Inevitably though, I end up curtly dismissing adorable men with my pig nose in the air. I don't intend to snub them, but the bigger my crush, the crueler my remarks. This toxic case of the third-grade-flirtations has not only poisoned my love life but also manifested itself into quite a pathetic reputation: Emily Winter has absolutely no game.
But last winter break, I made the wisest decision of a life full of unwise decisions: I allowed a self-taught gothic hair extentionist to attach plastic dreadlocks to my large, lumpy head.
And then... there was game.
Hippies, hipsters, jocks, lesbians, rockers, guys on balconies, losers, intellectuals, shut-ins who play video games all day and even a male stripper helplessly fell victim to me and my hypnotizing, hay- colored mane.
Of course, I looked kind of stupid. My better friends gently disclosed to me that I was more attractive before empty patches of scalp shined in the pale winter light, blinding and nauseating those nearby.
\Pretty scary"" was one friend's reaction. And I think that sums it up quite well.
One particularly snowy day, I was sloshing home when a sexy dude with a blue-eyed puppy hit on me at a crosswalk. With the itchy, plastic rolls of hair framing my droopy, pale, snot face, I resembled no sexy ski bunny or curl-up-by-the-fire-with-me hottie. So at the time, this Twilight Zone situation made less sense to me than trickle-down economics or the allure of the Olsen twins.
But as the seasons changed and the beloved dreads grew out, I began to realize their appeal had been more symbolic than actual.
It seems that most of us are always searching for change-any tiny break from our monotonous daily activities. As visual creatures, our internal cravings surface as superficial conquests. So for some, scoring a date with the dreadhead subconsciously fulfilled a need to put a dent in their routine. In truth, most of us are probably in constant pursuit of another's proverbial dreadlocks, knowing deep down that ultimate satisfaction can only come from the dreads within ourselves.
So nowadays, no magical golden tresses stream from my irregularly-shaped head. I am once again, E-minus game.
I suppose that's a good thing. At least now I know a dude won't date me for my fake, plastic assets. In fact, now I pretty much know a dude won't date me at all.
And I'm okay with that.
No, really.
But I've still got those dreadlocks in a box in my basement. Just in case.
Emily Winter is a junior majoring in sociology and journalism. She can be reached at ewinter@wisc.edu.
