Would You Date the Cyclops Kitten? Or, Why Does “Being Real” = Being Alone?

Today, while sitting in the salon in my hometown and having the prerequisite hairdresser chit chat with the guy who’s been doing my hair since high school, the old “so, you got a boyfriend?” question came up.
These days, I don’t even try to stop my chuckle when I answer, “nope”.
We talked a little about why my river has run so dry for so long, and as he ran his scissors through my bangs, my hometown hairdresser goes “well, it’s probably because you’re a real person.”
This is not the first time I’ve been called real. And it’s not the first time this “realness” has been connected to me being single.
What are we to surmise from this?
Does being real immediately put me in some kind of realness cage? A desolate place where people who can’t be anything other than themselves are gawked at by the rest of the fake society? Is being real like having some kind of horrible birthmark on my face — something that frightens potential suitors away with its blatant obviousness? Are we real people like the cyclops kitten; so weird no one wants to get too close but can’t exactly look away?

Every time the word real is uttered by someone describing my personality, it’s always delivered in some kind of half-apologetic way. Kind of like how I imagine people talked about Jesus when he was collecting all of his followers.

“You know, Jesus is supposedly the Son of God...”

“Yup. The Son of God…”

Now, I’m not really comparing myself to good old JC (the last time I tried turning water into wine I was already pretty drunk and too broke to come up with any other solutions), my point is that being real seems to be seen as simultaneously awesome and pretty sh*tty.

Is it really that hard to find real people in this day and age?
And if it is, what is everyone else doing?

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