We were driving between jobs one afternoon, cruising through town with the windows down.
As we went through an intersection, we all noticed an attractive young woman up ahead walking along the sidewalk. She was wearing high heels and a short skirt that showed off her long legs.
As we drove past, one of the guys, Juan, stuck his entire head out the window and whistled. The woman jumped, startled.
“Well, that was subtle,” I said.
Juan elbowed me in the ribs. “She was hot, no?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. She was OK.”
I didn’t want to state the obvious: that she was way out of my league.
“No,” said Crew Leader Carl, shaking his head and puffing on a cigarette as he drove. “You wouldn’t want her, Pete.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Carl looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Isn’t it obvious? Because she’s a redhead!”
We drove in silence for a moment.
“Um, OK,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t get it. What’s the deal with redheads?”
“Oh, man,” Carl said. “Don’t you know? Redheads are the nastiest of them all! They’re gross. They’re dirty. They’re notorious!”
I stared at him, blinking. “Carl, what are you talking about?”
“Well, let me explain,” Carl said. “The only reason I say that is because the first redhead I dated gave me the crabs, and the second redhead I dated gave me the clap.”
I’m sure my mouth was hanging open. “But you can’t just impugn an entire class of women based on your personal experiences!”
“Sure I can,” Carl said. “They were miserable experiences.”
“Maybe it’s not so much redheads in general as the type of women you date?” I suggested.
Carl shrugged. “Crabs and clap. I think the math speaks for itself.”