The Hinge Experiment: My Eyebrows Are Now Part of the Story

I'm older than most people wandering around the dating-app wilderness, and saying I don't have much recent dating experience would be an understatement.

Actually, forget recent.

I don't have much dating experience, period.

My last first date was about five months ago.

For anyone new to the blog, that one didn't exactly end with a mug and talk of a Boo Basket.

She tried to shake me down.

First, it was rent money.

Then came the phone bill.

Luckily, I escaped after paying for a meal, a few hurricanes, and maybe $60 cash that I had on me.

Considering how that evening was headed, I consider myself lucky.

So now that I've had an actual enjoyable first date with Airica, I've encountered an entirely new problem:

What the hell am I supposed to do next?

Is There Still a Three-Day Rule?

Do I wait three days?

Four days?

Do I call?

Text?

Send a carrier pigeon?

Do I conjure up a magical genie and ask it to grant me three wishes, with one of them being:

"Please don't let me screw this up."

I don't know the rules.

The last time I had a first date, I was apparently supposed to bring enough cash to cover someone's monthly expenses.

This feels different.

Thankfully, Airica may have answered the question for me.

Good Morning

Today is a dialysis day.

That means my alarm goes off around 4:15 in the morning so I can start getting myself together and make my 5:50 dialysis start.

Once I'm hooked up, I usually try to sleep.

It makes the time go faster.

But this morning, I got a more-than-pleasant surprise.

A "Good morning" text from Airica.

WAIT.

WHAT?

I don't have to wait three days?

I don't need the genie?

I don't need to analyze the date like the Zapruder film?

Apparently, people who enjoy talking to each other can just…

continue talking to each other.

What a concept.

I was so pleasantly surprised that my dialysis needles almost came shooting out.

For the record, that would have significantly changed the tone of this blog post.

But I Had a Question

On my drive to dialysis this morning, I started thinking about something Airica said during our date.

I had asked her why she swiped on me.

Her answer?

Apparently, I had an "interesting look."

Interesting.

I've been thinking about that one.

Is "interesting look" another way of saying:

"You're not ugly, but I'm also not prepared to call you conventionally handsome"?

At this stage of my life, interesting works.

I've got one leg, no hair, questionable eyesight, kidneys that have outsourced their responsibilities to a machine three days a week, and now apparently an interesting face.

Put that on Hinge.

Then She Mentioned the Eyebrows

Airica also pointed out my eyebrows yesterday.

Specifically…

how bushy they are.

Excuse me?

My eyebrows?

Bushy?

No way.

All right.

Maybe a little.

Actually, this isn't the first time I've heard this.

It's becoming something of a recurring theme.

Most Tuesdays and Fridays during the fraternity Zoom hangout, I can count on someone to remind me that my eyebrows have apparently declared independence from the rest of my face.

Then there's a guy at one of my recovery meetings who calls me:

Ming the Merciless.

If you're not familiar with Ming, look him up.

Look at the eyebrows.

Apparently, you'll understand.

And now Airica has joined the Eyebrow Oversight Committee.

At some point, when multiple independent organizations reach the same conclusion, I suppose I have to consider the possibility that there might actually be a problem.

They're Large and in Charge

I told Airica this isn't the first time I've heard about them.

These eyebrows are large and in charge.

It's actually a little unfair.

My head decided years ago that growing hair was no longer part of the strategic plan.

Meanwhile, my eyebrows apparently looked at the newly available resources and said:

"We'll take it from here."

All the hair production has been consolidated into two small strips directly above my eyes.

Efficiency.

Maybe this is why Airica thought I had an "interesting look."

She didn't swipe on me.

The eyebrows matched hers.

I'm just their transportation.

Do I Need Threading?

Now I'm starting to wonder whether I need to try one of those eyebrow-threading places.

I've seen them.

Someone takes a piece of thread and somehow uses it to rip hair out of your face.

This sounds exactly like the type of activity a man with my medical history should voluntarily add to his schedule.

Dialysis Monday.

Eyebrow torture Tuesday.

Dialysis Wednesday.

Recover from eyebrows Thursday.

Dialysis Friday.

Dating Saturday.

Seems reasonable.

The problem is that I know myself.

I'll walk in and say:

"Just clean them up a little."

Then I'll open my eyes and discover that I've gone from Ming the Merciless to Whoopi Goldberg.

No eyebrows.

Nothing.

Just forehead transitioning directly into eyeballs.

So, About That Follow-Up...

I guess I don't have to figure out whether I should wait three days.

Airica texted me.

She said good morning.

We survived the first date.

She survived my driving.

She survived my near fall at The Grand.

She survived four hours with me.

She made it home with all of her organs.

And the next morning, she still wanted to say hello.

I'll take that as a positive sign.

Does that mean there's going to be a second date?

I still don't know.

I'm new at this.

Maybe I still have to audition.

Maybe I'm waiting for the callback.

But compared with where The Hinge Experiment was a few weeks ago—zero matches, zero conversations, and Steve the Iguana preparing to become my permanent companion—I'd say we're making progress.

And if there is a second date, I may arrive with slightly more aerodynamic eyebrows.

Or I may leave them exactly as they are.

After all…

She swiped right on the eyebrows she saw.

No sense engaging in false advertising now.

But if the next picture you see of me has absolutely no eyebrows whatsoever, you'll know what happened.

Airica started it.

The Hinge Experiment: Four Hours, 250 Miles, Brussels Sprouts and a Mug

Well, it happened.

After all the matches that went nowhere, conversations that disappeared, unanswered messages, unmatches, an empty Hinge inbox, jokes about deleting the app, and Steve the Iguana patiently waiting for me to abandon dating altogether…

I went on an actual first date.

With Airica.

And I have some numbers.

Four hours.

About 250 miles of driving.

Brussels sprouts.

A half-and-half—which I learned is half sweet tea and half unsweetened tea. I thought Airica was getting an Arnold Palmer.

Shrimp & grits.

A ribeye, medium-well.

A walk for candy.

Some laughs.

Some transparency.

More laughs.

And…

A mug.

Yes, a mug.

And somehow, that mug feels like a significant development in The Hinge Experiment™.

My First First Date With a Parting Gift

This may have been the first first date where I left with something other than a broken heart, cash out of pocket to help someone pay her rent, or an overwhelming need to review some of my life decisions.

This time?

I left with a mug, a full belly, and a smile on my face.

Progress!

Before the Date, I Tried to Get Us on Dateline

Full transparency.

Yesterday morning, before Airica and I had ever actually met in person, I asked her if she wanted to take a drive with me to Tampa Bay to watch the Yankees play.

There were tickets available.

I didn't want to go alone.

Seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

Apparently, from the perspective of a woman who has never met this man before, getting into his car for at least seven hours is a slightly different proposition.

She was confused.

Concerned.

Cautious.

She may have considered that accepting this invitation could eventually land her on an episode of Dateline.

I get it.

Although, come on.

A bald dude with one leg, failing kidneys, and eyes that don't work particularly well?

I'd be skeptical, too.

Maybe the real concern should have been whether I'd wake up in a bathtub full of ice with a bunch of stitches and discover that the few functioning organs I have left had been harvested.

There isn't much good inventory here, Airica.

Either way, Tampa was wisely removed from the agenda.

We decided to start with lunch.

She Still Didn't Tell Me Where She Lives

I arrived at our meeting location in Columbia.

And no, at this point I apparently had not yet achieved "You May Know Where I Live" status.

Also understandable.

I did, however, get a nice hug.

I'll take it.

Then we headed into downtown Columbia.

I've been around there before because of a failed job interview.

See? Everything happens for a reason.

I didn't get the job, but years later I knew how to get downtown for a Hinge date.

Career development.

Airica picked The Grand, and it turned out to be a great choice.

The food was awesome, the place had a nice feel, and the company was fantastic.

There was only one problem.

I couldn't see a darn thing.

Nothing Says "Smooth" Like Almost Falling on Your Butt

The Grand was dimly lit.

Maybe romantically lit.

With my eyesight?

Basically a cave.

They showed us to a nice, almost circular booth.

I went to sit down.

I misjudged exactly where the seat was.

And for one brief, beautiful moment, gravity attempted to bring me as close to the floor as physically possible.

Now, over the years, I’ve wondered what makes a man appear smooth and confident on a first date.

Apparently it's almost completely missing the point.

Ladies, try to control yourselves.

Somehow, I recovered.

Physically, at least.

In my head?

I'm burnt toast.

Date over.

Thank you for playing.

Please collect your complimentary mug on the way out.

Except…

It wasn't.

Then We Just Talked

We ordered food.

Brussels sprouts.

Shrimp & grits.

A ribeye cooked medium-well.

And the mysterious half & half.

When Airica ordered it, I thought she meant an Arnold Palmer.

Nope.

Half sweet tea.

Half unsweetened tea.

I learned something new.

More importantly, we talked.

And talked.

And talked.

There really wasn't an awkward silence.

Well, except when we were actually eating, which I think is acceptable first-date behavior.

I assume.

I don't really know what people are supposed to talk about on first dates because I haven't had many of these recently.

But we figured it out.

If we're being statistically accurate, Airica probably did about 60% of the talking.

Which means I did 40%.

Yes, I know.

For anyone who knows me, that may be the most unbelievable part of this entire story.

I Got to Know Airica

I learned a lot.

I learned about what Airica wants to be when she grows up.

I learned about her passions.

I learned more about her life and why she is where she is.

And by "where she is," I mean Columbia, South Carolina.

Because obviously Columbia is the hippest place in the entire universe.

Why wouldn't someone want to be there?

The more we talked, the more things we seemed to have in common.

Of course, there are some important differences.

She's female.

She has two functioning kidneys.

She has a full head of hair.

Show-off.

But we both have bad eyesight.

CHECK!

Finally, common ground.

Then She Yawned

Airica had already had a longer-than-normal day, and eventually I caught a few yawns.

Message received.

I told her it was time to get her back.

Preferably with all of her original body parts still attached so she could report to everyone that she had survived her encounter with the one-legged Hinge guy.

But she wasn't ready to leave.

She wanted candy.

Wait. What?

The date continues?

Apparently I hadn't completely screwed this up.

The 200-Foot Second Act

We walked about 200 feet to a general store that smelled like leather and sandalwood.

We bought candy.

I went with saltwater taffy.

Airica selected an assortment of gummy concoctions.

Nothing extravagant.

Nothing complicated.

Just walking around, getting candy and continuing the conversation.

And I liked that.

Eventually, we made our way back to her car.

There was a great hug.

A kiss on the cheek.

And then I started the long drive home.

And Then My Phone Started Getting Updates

On the drive back, I heard from her.

She updated me that she hadn't taken a nap.

She asked how far away I was.

And apparently…

I may be getting a Boo Basket.

I don't know exactly where a Boo Basket ranks in the traditional progression of modern courtship, but I'm assuming it's somewhere between:

"I don't hate you"

and

"You may eventually be permitted to know where I live."

I'll take it.

I also let her know that I opened the gift she'd given me.

The mug.

And yes, Airica knows I'm writing this.

See?

I'm learning.

So… Will There Be a Second Date?

That's the question.

I heard on the TikkyTokky that a first date is basically an audition to see whether you get a second date.

If that's true, my audition included nearly falling onto the floor, misunderstanding a tea order, discussing my collection of medical problems, and making jokes about organ harvesting.

Strong performance.

But here's what I know.

I drove roughly 250 miles.

We spent about four hours together.

There was good food.

There was candy.

There were serious conversations.

There was transparency.

There were laughs.

There were more laughs.

There wasn't that uncomfortable feeling of trying to manufacture conversation.

And when I got back into my car, I was smiling.

That's enough for today.

I'm glad we met.

I'm glad she didn't take me up on Tampa for our first meeting.

I'm glad neither of us ended up on Dateline.

And I'm particularly glad that after everything I've written about dating over the past few months, I finally got to write this:

The Hinge Experiment produced an actual date.

A good one.

Now I wait.

Will there be a second?

Will I get the callback?

Will there really be a Boo Basket?

Will I eventually reach the coveted "You Can Know Where I Live" level?

I have no idea.

But for the first time in this experiment, I don't need to make a joke about an empty Hinge inbox.

I left with a mug, a full belly, and a smile on my face.

I'd say that's a pretty damn good first date.

Stay tuned.

Steve the Iguana may need to cancel his plans.

The Hinge Experiment: Apparently My Date Reads My Blog

Well, The Hinge Experiment™ has taken an interesting turn.

Yesterday, I celebrated that after weeks of absolutely nothing happening on Hinge, I finally had a new match.

Airica.

We started talking. We discovered some things in common. She lives about an hour and a half away, which I don't consider a major obstacle. Most importantly, we started making plans to meet on Sunday.

So naturally, I did what I do.

I wrote about it with her photo.

And this morning, I discovered one tiny detail I probably should have considered more carefully:

Airica saw the post.

Oops.

Time for a Mea Culpa

I had to do a little mea culpa earlier today.

Airica was shocked that I'd posted about her and our Hinge match.

And you know what?

I totally get it.

She's a private person.

I am...

Well...

Have you met me?

I have a website with my name on it where I document my life regularly.

I write about dialysis.

I write about my prosthetic.

I write about eye surgery.

I write about scams.

I write about family.

I write about dating.

I once turned having zero Hinge matches into multiple blog posts and gave an imaginary iguana named Steve a recurring role.

Clearly, privacy and I have a somewhat unconventional relationship.

But that's my choice.

Airica didn't necessarily sign up for the same thing simply because she matched with me.

That's an important distinction.

My Life Is Public. Hers Doesn't Have to Be.

This was actually a good reminder for me.

I'm comfortable putting a lot of my life online.

Airica isn't.

Neither approach is wrong.

But when another person becomes part of one of my stories, particularly someone I'm just getting to know, I need to remember that my comfort level doesn't automatically become theirs.

So I apologized.

No excuses.

No:

“But I'm a blogger!”

No:

“But that's what I do!”

No attempt to convince her that she shouldn't have been surprised.

She was surprised.

I understood why.

Mea culpa.

Lesson learned.

And hopefully, lesson remembered.

But Here's the Good News...

Despite my apparently irresistible ability to create complications before the first date even happens, it looks like we're still on for tomorrow.

Yes.

Tomorrow.

The Hinge Experiment may finally produce an actual date.

Two people.

Same geographic location.

At the same time.

Intentionally.

I'm almost afraid to type that sentence.

Given the history of this experiment, I'm waiting for Hinge headquarters to send someone to my house and say:

“Sir, there's been a clerical error.”

But as of this writing...

We're on.

There's Just One Tiny Problem

Now I need to figure out what we're actually doing.

Details.

Apparently, announcing you're going on a date isn't the same as planning the date.

Who knew?

She's about an hour and a half away, so I'd like to come up with something that's worth the drive but also relaxed enough that we're not trapped in some elaborate four-hour romantic extravaganza if we discover within the first 20 minutes that we have absolutely nothing to say to each other.

That's the strange thing about meeting someone from an app.

We've talked.

We've messaged.

We've seen pictures.

We've read profiles.

But we've never actually been in the same room.

There is still that moment when two people meet and discover whether the digital version translates into real life.

I'm looking forward to finding out.

And Maybe I'll Try Something Radical

Perhaps tomorrow I'll do something completely outside my normal operating procedure.

Experience the date before writing about the date.

Revolutionary.

I know.

And if Airica prefers that parts of her life stay private, I can respect that.

The Hinge Experiment can still be my story without making every person I meet a public character.

Although Steve the Iguana remains fair game.

He signed a release.

Probably.

Current Hinge Standings

After weeks of watching an empty match screen:

Matches: 1.

Woman I'm actually talking to: 1.

Potential date tomorrow: 1.

Distance: About 90 minutes.

Mea culpas issued: 1.

Dates actually completed: Still 0.

That last number could finally change tomorrow.

First, however, I need to answer the most pressing question in The Hinge Experiment:

What the heck are we going to do?

Stay tuned.

Well...

Maybe don't stay too tuned.

I'm learning. 😂

The Hinge Experiment: Wait… I Have a Match!

Well, this is awkward.

When I was considering whether The Hinge Experiment™ had run its course, Hinge apparently heard me.

I got a match.

Her name is Airica.

And even more shocking?

We're already talking about meeting Sunday.

Steve the Iguana may have to unpack his bags. 🦎

From Zero Matches to Airica

My last Hinge update wasn't exactly optimistic.

My match queue was empty.

Matches: 0.
Conversations: 0.
Dates: 0.

Meanwhile, traffic to NielFlamm.com was doing considerably better than my dating life.

I was legitimately starting to wonder whether it was time to delete Hinge and move along. After all, there's only so much entertainment I can squeeze out of screenshots saying:

“No matches right now.”

Apparently, Hinge took that personally.

This morning, I liked one of Airica's pictures.

Five minutes later?

💋

Well, hello there.

A response!

From a human!

This changes everything.

Okay, probably not everything. Calm down, Niel.

And We Already Have Something in Common

I noticed that Airica had lived in Las Vegas.

I lived there for about ten years, so I immediately had something to ask about.

My opening wasn't Shakespeare:

“Good morning! Where did you live in Vegas? I lived there for 10 years…”

But I've already established during this experiment that I don't exactly spit mad game.

I'm more of a:

“Hello. Here is a relevant question based upon information you voluntarily provided. Would you care to discuss?”

kind of guy.

Somehow, despite this irresistible charm, the conversation continued.

And now we're making plans for Sunday.

Yes.

An actual day.

For an actual potential date.

With an actual person.

WHAT IS HAPPENING?

There Is One Small Issue

Airica is in Lexington, South Carolina.

That's about a 90-minute drive for me.

Some people might look at that and immediately say:

“Too far.”

I don't.

I like driving.

An hour and a half isn't exactly a commute I'd want to make every morning, but for an opportunity to meet someone I'm interested in?

That's manageable.

Besides, I've spent longer than 90 minutes scrolling through dating profiles with absolutely nothing to show for it.

At least this drive has a destination.

And if we meet and discover there's chemistry?

Then we figure out geography.

If we meet and discover there isn't?

I had a Sunday drive.

There are considerably worse outcomes.

Let's Not Get Ahead of Ourselves

If you've followed The Hinge Experiment, you already know I've learned this lesson.

A match isn't a date.

A conversation isn't a date.

Making plans for a date isn't even necessarily a date.

Until two human beings are physically sitting in the same place at the same time, I'm keeping the champagne firmly corked.

Actually, let's make that Coke Zero.

But this already feels different from some of my previous matches because we're actually discussing meeting.

That's what I've wanted all along.

I'm not looking for an eternal Hinge pen pal.

I'm not trying to collect matches.

I'm not interested in exchanging “Good morning!” messages until Social Security sends us both birthday cards.

Let's meet.

Have a conversation.

Laugh.

Eat something.

See whether we enjoy being around each other.

Dating apps are supposed to be the introduction—not the entire relationship.

So Much for Deleting Hinge

And here is perhaps the funniest part.

I was asking:

Is it time to delete the app?

Hinge apparently responded:

“Not so fast, Baldy.”

Fair enough.

The experiment gets an extension.

As of right now:

Matches: 1.

Active conversations: 1.

Potential Sunday dates: 1.

Distance: About 1½ hours.

Niel's expectations: Cautiously optimistic.

Steve the Iguana: Furious. 🦎

Sorry, Steve.

You're back on the bench.

At least until Sunday.

Because if this date actually happens, The Hinge Experiment will finally accomplish something I've been trying to make happen since I started it:

A date from a dating app.

What a concept.

Stay tuned.

This could get inter

esting.

The Hinge Experiment: No Matches. Maybe It’s Time to Delete the App?

Well, here we are again.

I opened Hinge, went to my matches, and was greeted by the same incredibly encouraging message:

“No matches right now.”

Thank you, Hinge.

I worried there might be a secret match hiding somewhere. Maybe someone had been trying desperately to reach me, but the app had misplaced her.

Nope.

Still nobody.

Since my last round of matches—Kelli, Missing Gina and Me—there have been no new matches.

Zero.

The Hinge Experiment has become less of a dating experiment and more of a controlled scientific study examining how long a bald man can stare at an empty screen before deleting an app.

At Least Somebody Is Interested in Me

There is some good news.

While my Hinge traffic is approximately equal to that of an abandoned shopping mall...

the traffic to NielFlamm.com is up substantially.

Apparently, people are much more interested in reading about me trying to date than actually dating me.

I'm not sure whether to celebrate or seek professional marketing advice.

On Hinge:

No matches right now.

On NielFlamm.com:

Come on in!

Maybe I've discovered my true calling.

Not dating.

Writing about the complete absence of dating.

At least one of those appears to have an audience.

Hinge Has a Solution, Naturally

The screenshot makes me laugh because immediately underneath “No matches right now,” Hinge offers two helpful possibilities:

Boost your profile.

Or...

Upgrade to HingeX.

Ahhhhh.

The problem may be solvable with a credit card.

I see.

Nothing says romance quite like:

“Congratulations! Nobody wants to talk to you. Would you like to purchase additional features?”

I'm not convinced.

I'm not desperate to meet someone, and I'm definitely not interested in spending money to make my dating life look more active than it is.

It would be nice to meet someone.

That's still true.

But if it doesn't happen on Hinge, it doesn't happen on Hinge.

Maybe It’s Time to End the Experiment

I'm starting to seriously wonder whether I've gotten everything I'm going to get from this app.

I started with Tinder.

That became an experiment.

Then I moved to Hinge.

That became another experiment.

There were matches.

There were messages.

There were “good mornings.”

There were unanswered questions.

There were almost-dates.

There were phone numbers offered.

There was silence.

There were unmatches.

And now we've arrived at the grand finale:

An empty queue.

Maybe Hinge really is “designed to be deleted.”

Just perhaps not for the reason I originally hoped.

Then There’s Thailand...

Another wrinkle in this story.

I've been exploring the possibility of eventually spending part of my life in Thailand, and I've had people tell me something interesting:

My dating prospects may look very different there.

We'll see.

I'm certainly not booking an international flight because somebody promised me a better dating pool.

I'm interested in Thailand for reasons much bigger than dating. If that chapter happens, it will involve figuring out where and how I want to live, healthcare, dialysis, cost of living, culture, food, and whether I can build a life there that I actually enjoy.

But apparently, I've been told that being me may not be quite the dating catastrophe that my current Hinge screen would suggest.

Let's review the merchandise:

Bald?

Yep.

One leg?

Definitely.

ESRD?

Check.

Eyes that have required enough work to qualify for their own frequent-patient program?

Also check.

And yet I've been told:

“You'll do fine in Thailand.”

Well, that's quite the sales pitch.

I don't know whether that's actually true, and I'm certainly not assuming women in another country are going to react to me in any particular way.

They're individuals, not a demographic dating guarantee.

But I admit...

I'm curious.

Maybe the Problem Isn’t Something That Needs Fixing

That's probably the biggest takeaway from this experiment.

I'm not interested in reinventing myself to generate matches.

I have a complicated life.

I have scars.

I have medical realities.

I have recovery.

I have boundaries.

I have one leg.

I have no hair.

I have questionable eyesight.

I tend to write about things on the internet that most sane people would probably keep private.

And somehow I've also acquired an imaginary iguana named Steve.

This is the package.

I'm not everyone's cup of tea.

That's okay.

I'm not looking for everyone.

I'd eventually like to find one woman where the interest, effort, attraction, humor, and conversation go both ways.

If that happens in South Carolina, wonderful.

If someday it happens in Thailand, wonderful.

If it happens somewhere completely unexpected, even better.

And if it takes a while?

I have a life to live in the meantime.

So, Is Hinge Getting Deleted?

I haven't decided yet.

But for the first time since starting this experiment, I'm seriously considering it.

The current standings are difficult to misinterpret:

Matches: 0.

Conversations: 0.

Dates: 0.

NielFlamm.com traffic: UP.

Maybe that's the universe telling me something.

Or maybe it's just an algorithm telling me to buy HingeX.

Either way, I'm listening.

And Steve?

Don't start packing for Thailand yet. 🦎