Nobody puts baillee in the corner

During my senior year of college, a “friend” (aka an old resident that I haven’t seen in two years and who, to quote Romy White, is a “bad person with an ugly heart”) and I were talking about my dating life. He wound up making the comment that my height and pixie cut attributed to me being single. As in he said, and I’m only slightly paraphrasing here, that I was tall with short hair, so I already had two strikes against myself. 
Now, I want to go ahead and spoil the ending for you by letting you know that I see couples of all different sizes, heights, and hairstyles come through my line at work every single day. Superficial things definitely aren’t what matter, but I can’t help but hear his words echoing through my head from time to time. Occasionally, everyone’s favorite negative voice (announced by Don Pardo) decides to waltz in and make me reconsider a haircut. It makes me not want to wear wedges or combat boots for fear of being taller than the person I like. It even sometimes tells me fedoras could potentially be cute (m’lady). It’s downright awful.  
If you’ve read even two sentences of my blog, you know I suffer from both depression and anxiety, so comments like the aforementioned one are basically the worst thing you can say to me next to telling me that we need to talk without giving any context or telling me I missed your birthday (if you’ve ever celebrated a birthday with me, you understand). It’s things like this I can’t shake. I fixate on them. It gets to the point that I write blog posts about them almost three years after the fact. 
What does my height and hair have to do with anything though? The length of hair doesn’t say anything about my love of Gilmore Girls, tell the adorably endearing tale of the time I almost fractured my ankle in three places while playing Dance Central (thanks Soulja Boy), or how I hate being called hon, baby, or sweetie by anyone outside of my family. My height isn’t telling of my stance on Green Day’s American Idiot (aka one of the greatest rock operas ever), how I go weak in the knees for a guy with a good set of arms, or that I still can’t ride a bike. You have to get to know me to know any of those things (or at least read this blog post), so I didn’t why this guy’s comment was so important, but now I do. 
My height and hair have nothing do with anything. It’s about the person who isn’t willing to look past those things to get to know that I still cry about Prince dying, I’m my grumpiest when I have wet socks or a sore throat, and I hate Rush. If someone isn’t willing to look past the $3 black hair dye on a pixie cut and all 5′ and 10″ of my torso, then they clearly aren’t worth the effort. I’m not saying physical attraction doesn’t play a role in things. It definitely does, but my point is not that only you are the only one that has to be physically attracted to them, but also, that physical attraction is only enhanced the more you get to know someone. It’s a classic example of the teapot from The Office. John Krasinski is a total babe, but the teapot intensifies his cuteness by approximately 1000%. 
I know Jim Halpert is the ultimate fictional dreamboat, but the same principle is definitely applicable in real life. I’ve had crushes both dissipate and go from zero to 60 in three seconds because of someone’s actions. There’s a lot more at play than just someone’s hair cut, hair color, height, weight, etc… It’s all about those insides, yo. (Someone with a good colon makes me melt). 
At the risk of finishing up this blog post without my usual edge, I’ll leave you with a couple things. Don’t put all of your time and effort into someone who won’t give you 30 minutes for coffee. Don’t slouch because a dumb asshole or two told you people don’t like tall girls. Don’t keep your hair long because you’re scared of what someone will think. Most importantly, fuck the haters.  You’re perfect.