Overlooking what’s right in front of us – okay, directly in front of me – is a kind of species hazard. The joke is on we homo sapiens that answers find their way into our line of sight and then manoeuver themselves into our blind spot.

They’re there, in plain view, if only we shift our heads a few degrees, up or down, left or right.

In the same vein, I had a mate a few years back who loudly proclaimed his ocular “blonde spot”. His optic nerve, he would say, only registered women of the non-brunette non-redhead variety. (The technical inaccuracy of this metaphor was lost on him, but, hey, it was a good line.)

When pressed about why he would deliberately refrain from pursuing most of the eligible female population based on hair pigment, his answer was:

“Dude. It’s in my DNA, okay?”

This admittedly extreme case of girl-blindness had nothing to do with his DNA, and everything to do with the story he told himself. His dating script, in other words, was a kind of monograph that forever cast him in the role of BlondMan.

His notoriety lasted for a while, but like all typecast actors he fell victim to his own limitations and ran out of parts.

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