NYC’s a tough town.

Neighbors weigh in on my appearance.

“Your face is okay, but your hair!! What in the world…??!” My neighbor Cecile, sporting a floral housecoat and blue nubby slippers is sitting on the apartment hallway steps. She was 80 if she was a day, and jarringly, her makeup was always perfectly applied — a crazy juxtaposition with her stair-sitting getup. Cecile perched on those stairs every day, convinced she would win the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes and distrustful of the locks on our mailboxes and the neighbors. So she sat every day, watching for the mailman, and in my case — dispensing with beauty advice. “You’re single, aren’t you?” she continued, cackling a little. “I could just tell! You’re never going to catch a man with hair like that!” I smiled wanly and made my way around Cecile and up the stairs to my apartment. (My red, curly hair had suffered more finger-in-the-socket and Little Orphan Annie jokes than you could shake a blowdryer at.) She was probably right, I reflected, but I had other fish to fry. (Because haddock was on sale, and the expiration date was today, 4/8/1992.) And Cecile was a lunatic, anyway. The entire building heard her yelling at PC poodle, her dog and only companion. She was partially deaf, not angry, and that accounted for the yelling. One time she confided that the “PC” stood for Prince Charming, and that he gave her more happiness than her good-for-nothing husband ever did. I wondered why she was so anxious to get me married off, since she never had a good word to say about him, or the institution.

A few days later, the beauty magazines started appearing. They’d show up like clockwork, once a week in a plastic bag hanging from the doorknob of my apartment. There was no note, but I knew they were from Cecile, desperately trying to get me to gussy up. The next time I saw her, I thanked her, but she waved me away — “Listen, you need those more than I do!” she shrieked, laughing. “I suppose that’s true, Cecile,” I laughed. She was a kook, but I liked kooks, and they liked me. I had a long history with those who marched to a different drummer — there was the time I got a horrific haircut; so bad that a friend said, “I swear to God — I’d like to KILL whoever did that to your head…!” (It was seriously bad.) I cowered inside for a few days, but finally had to head out to the grocery store. I was standing in the checkout line when I heard a woman’s voice behind me admiringly say — I LOVE your hair! Grateful, I turned around to see an old woman with no teeth grinning widely, wearing 4 coats, a feather boa, a top hat and carrying 16 plastic bags bulging with recyclable cans. “Well, I LOVE your hat!” I responded, and she set down her bags to give me a high five.