The awkward and complicated exercise of matchmaking that used to dominate the singles’ scene has been reduced to swipes and snap judgments made from virtually no information.A photo, a short description—there’s not much opportunity to create the perfect impression. First impressions can form so quickly that you benefit from paying attention to details.

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Download it, get pissed at your score, chuck your cell at someone’s shin then apologize until it becomes One’s shin. But that new-new love — that 21st century romance — is all about Uber Pool. They were complaining about how annoying it is that “a girl can’t take a shared ride without getting hit on.” “Totally,” I said while re-downloading the app after I’d deleted it for making me poor.

“This isn’t a bar.” “So gross.” (I said that.) “Who even likes bars? I’d decided that trying Uber Pool in the name of the dating game would kill a few birds with one phone. Nope’d on two coasts like a Mindy Kaling-meets-Meg Ryan character. But when you really want one, they will be unavailable.

In my case, they removed my hair and my skull, and repaired, after 22 hours of surgery, a tortuous tangle of blood cells, between the arteries and veins, which was determined to be a congenital (there since birth) and hereditary (my mom had one, too), AVM. I went out with this particular guy on and off, for about five years.

Unfortunately, part of my optic nerve was caught inside, so some of my sight was taken away as well. I dated other guys as well, always keeping my options open.

These love-seekers argued that “there’s something quite romantic about two people sitting in the backseat of a car,” and some developed habits of asking women co-passengers “Where are you headed? But please don’t comment on someone’s appearance or ask whether they are single…And don’t touch or flirt with other people in the car. That’s no sexual conduct between drivers and riders, no matter what.” Riders and drivers who violate this policy can be removed from the platform.

Uber has now cleared up where it stands on the issue.

At age 15, after a stint as a cheerleader, softball player, band member, and overall wannabe in the in-crowd, with locks of long, thick hair, my worst fear happened. Now, it wasn’t the brain surgery, or the possibility of death, since those fears were abstract concepts at that point.

It was the immediate, concrete knowledge of losing my hair.

This guy made me laugh, but he also clued me into his personality as well.