gym since grade school. You’re doing well because you’re smart and you’re a fast learner. But looks count too. You’re Style, so start being Style. Just snap: shave your head, get Lasik, join a gym.”
He was a very persuasive geek.
He turned to Marko: “Is there a barbershop around here?”
Unfortunately, there was. Marko pulled in front of a small building, and we walked inside to find an elderly Serbian man presiding over an empty shop. Mystery sat me in a chair, told Marko to instruct the barber to remove my tumbleweeds, and then supervised the procedure to make sure the barber shaved down to the skull.
“Balding is not a choice, but bald is a choice,” he said. “If anyone asksyou why your head is shaved, tell them, ‘I used to have it down past my ass, but then I realized I was covering up my best feature.’ “ He laughed. “Or you could say, ‘Well, most Greco-Roman wrestlers shave their heads.” I made a mental note to add both replies to my cheat sheet.
When the barber finished, I looked in the mirror and saw a chemo patient staring back at me.
“It looks good,” Mystery said. “Let’s see if there’s a tanning salon around here. We’ll have you looking like a thug in no time.”
“Okay. But I’m not getting Lasik in Serbia.”
My first thought once I was shaven-headed and tan was: What took me so long? I looked much better. I had transformed from a 5 to a 6.5 on the attractiveness scale. This trip was turning out to be a good idea.
Marko looked as if he could use a makeover himself. A big-boned six foot three, he was much stockier than most Serbians, with an olive complexion and the out-of-proportion head of a Peanuts character. He wore an overcoat that was one size too big, a thick gray Brooks Brothers sweater with flecks of white, and a cream-colored turtleneck that actually made him look like a turtle.
Marko had been unable to live his dream of being a high-society socialite after graduating from college in America, so he’d moved to a smaller pond, Serbia, where his father was a well-known artist.
He drove us to his one-bedroom apartment, which contained only a cot and a twin bed. Because there was no sleeping bag or even a couch, we agreed to take turns sharing the larger bed.
While Mystery showered, Marko pulled me aside.
“What are you doing with this guy?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s totally superficial. We went to the Latin School of Chicago. We went to Vassar College. This is not the kind of guy who can fit in at these places. He’s not one of us.”
“I know. I know. You’re right. But trust me, this guy will change your life.”
“Well,” Marko said. “We’ll see. I met a girl last month who’s different than all the rest, and I want to do it right. So make sure Mystery doesn’t ruin it with all his pickup tricks and embarrass me.”
Marko hadn’t dated a single woman since he’d moved to Belgrade. But a few months ago, through friend of his, he’d met a girl named Goca, andhe was sure she was the one. He took her out on dates, bought her flowers, treated her to dinner, and dropped her off at home afterward, like a perfect gentleman.
“Have you slept with her yet?” I asked him.
“No. I haven’t even kissed her.”
“Dude, you’re behaving like a total AFC. One day a guy is going to walk up to her in a club, say, ‘Do you think magic spells work?’ and take her home. She wants an adventure. She wants to have sex. All girls do.”
“Well,” Marko said, “she’s different from all those girls. People have more class here than they do in L.A.”
The PUAs have a name for this: They call it one-itis. It’s a disease AFCs get: They become obsessed with a girl they’re neither dating nor sleeping with, and then start acting so needy and nervous around her that they end up driving her away. The cure for one-itis, PUAs like to say, is to go out and have sex with a dozen other girls—and then see if this flower is still so
He was a very persuasive geek.
He turned to Marko: “Is there a barbershop around here?”
Unfortunately, there was. Marko pulled in front of a small building, and we walked inside to find an elderly Serbian man presiding over an empty shop. Mystery sat me in a chair, told Marko to instruct the barber to remove my tumbleweeds, and then supervised the procedure to make sure the barber shaved down to the skull.
“Balding is not a choice, but bald is a choice,” he said. “If anyone asksyou why your head is shaved, tell them, ‘I used to have it down past my ass, but then I realized I was covering up my best feature.’ “ He laughed. “Or you could say, ‘Well, most Greco-Roman wrestlers shave their heads.” I made a mental note to add both replies to my cheat sheet.
When the barber finished, I looked in the mirror and saw a chemo patient staring back at me.
“It looks good,” Mystery said. “Let’s see if there’s a tanning salon around here. We’ll have you looking like a thug in no time.”
“Okay. But I’m not getting Lasik in Serbia.”
My first thought once I was shaven-headed and tan was: What took me so long? I looked much better. I had transformed from a 5 to a 6.5 on the attractiveness scale. This trip was turning out to be a good idea.
Marko looked as if he could use a makeover himself. A big-boned six foot three, he was much stockier than most Serbians, with an olive complexion and the out-of-proportion head of a Peanuts character. He wore an overcoat that was one size too big, a thick gray Brooks Brothers sweater with flecks of white, and a cream-colored turtleneck that actually made him look like a turtle.
Marko had been unable to live his dream of being a high-society socialite after graduating from college in America, so he’d moved to a smaller pond, Serbia, where his father was a well-known artist.
He drove us to his one-bedroom apartment, which contained only a cot and a twin bed. Because there was no sleeping bag or even a couch, we agreed to take turns sharing the larger bed.
While Mystery showered, Marko pulled me aside.
“What are you doing with this guy?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s totally superficial. We went to the Latin School of Chicago. We went to Vassar College. This is not the kind of guy who can fit in at these places. He’s not one of us.”
“I know. I know. You’re right. But trust me, this guy will change your life.”
“Well,” Marko said. “We’ll see. I met a girl last month who’s different than all the rest, and I want to do it right. So make sure Mystery doesn’t ruin it with all his pickup tricks and embarrass me.”
Marko hadn’t dated a single woman since he’d moved to Belgrade. But a few months ago, through friend of his, he’d met a girl named Goca, andhe was sure she was the one. He took her out on dates, bought her flowers, treated her to dinner, and dropped her off at home afterward, like a perfect gentleman.
“Have you slept with her yet?” I asked him.
“No. I haven’t even kissed her.”
“Dude, you’re behaving like a total AFC. One day a guy is going to walk up to her in a club, say, ‘Do you think magic spells work?’ and take her home. She wants an adventure. She wants to have sex. All girls do.”
“Well,” Marko said, “she’s different from all those girls. People have more class here than they do in L.A.”
The PUAs have a name for this: They call it one-itis. It’s a disease AFCs get: They become obsessed with a girl they’re neither dating nor sleeping with, and then start acting so needy and nervous around her that they end up driving her away. The cure for one-itis, PUAs like to say, is to go out and have sex with a dozen other girls—and then see if this flower is still so
Similar Books
