Dear Abby?

For some reason, I have always been that friend that others come to for advice, usually relationship advice. Perhaps because I will be unforgivingly honest. Perhaps I am a good listener, and take great pains to not bring my own feelings into the mix. Perhaps because I might be somewhat perceptive about the dynamics between the sexes, and have some experience with dating, both casual and serious. Either way, my girlfriends, my brother, they all come to me. In fact, a friend called me her own personal Dear Abby today.

In fact, my first pseudo-journalism job was an internship at this ultra-crappy, barely-known monthly paper in Boston called InSite. One day, I was telling my editor that I always seem to be doling out advice and that I should have my own column. And he bit. And so was born the short-lived "Miss Lonely Hearts."

The introductory column started with a lengthy (and somewhat embellished) explanation as to why you should listen to me. Here's an excerpt: "... chances are, if I haven't tried it myself, I have seen it all before. I have sweated the most popular guy, fell in love at first sight, had my heart broken into tiny pieces all over the kitchen floor after a candlelit dinner. I have dated the jerks, the drug users, the smart homely type, and the guys who haven't yet figured out how to work the telephone. And I am no stranger to sex. I have dabbled in techniques, threesomes, men and women, and perfected Cosmo's version of the Kama Sutra."

Yes, only some of that is true, like the kitchen break-up. I had cooked that sucker dinner too. But I digress.

The column goes on to dish about one girl who thinks she is a lesbian, a woman wondering how to be more outgoing, and one uncomfortable with the notion of vibrators. My editor titled each section cleverly, such as "Lez or fess (up)?" and "To pee or not to pee, that is the question," and "Boyfriend or psycho date from hell".

It was a lot of fun, but since no one read the rag, no one wrote in, and so it quickly fizzled. I would LOVE to be able to do a relationship column again one day.

Why am I writing about this? Not sure. All I know is that I continue to be a source of relationship advice, and I certainly enjoy it. So, if anyone reading needs advice, hit me. But chances are you have already called me, and I have said something along the lines of "If you want to see him, call him and ask him out." or "You only thought he was cute because he thought you were/you were drunk/his friends weren't cute." or "If he doesn't call, he's probably gay."

I'll end this post with an open letter to my hairdresser, who I saw today:

Dear Joel,

You are a genius. You possess magical skills, almost like the scissors are an extension of your perfectly artistic hands - like Edward Scissorhands but not creepy and spastic.

You love your job, and it shows. The best moment is when you are cutting my hair, and you stop for a second and this smile comes across your face that says "Man, I am so good at this, and by golly, I have really done it this time!"

You are open-minded and adventurous and always share my vision for what my hair should look like. You are also fun to chat with, and I always enjoy myself and feel beautiful and fierce when I leave.

Should I ever move from Chicago, which seems inevitable, I will miss you dearly and await the day when I am rich enough to fly you to wherever I am to do my hair.

See you in a few weeks for a touch-up on my bangs,

Sara