I was walking through the parking lot the other day when a woman in her early 40s leaned out of the passenger-side window of a car and yelled at me, from 100 feet away, “I love your hair!”

Why? I mean, I have fabulous hair, but did you really need to lean out of a moving vehicle, twist your torso around and let me know that you, yes you, think the stuff that I grow out of my head, soak in chemicals to turn it bright red and shear it short, is awesome?

But like ships in the night is my preferred method of passing people on the street. When I’m walking alone, I don’t want to be bothered. I don’t need your blessing to wear my dope-ass floral dress. I like the way it looks, and that’s frankly the only thing that matters to me.

We spend so much time poring over the minutiae of female celebrities’ physical appearances in movies, magazines, advertising and TV that we feel entitled to comment on the physical appearance of complete strangers. I’ve walked down the street with plenty of female friends who’ve also been complimented on their clothes, hair or bodies by random passersby, but I’ve yet to walk down the street with a male friend who’s gotten any sort of such unasked-for feedback.

A study published in the “European Journal of Psychology” found that both men and women viewed men as a whole person and women as an object, as a collection of body parts. Perhaps this explains why everyone and their mother feels like it’s OK to judge a (female) stranger and her know that she’s been judged. Perhaps this is why we’ll complement a man’s car or a man’s dog, but not his jeans.

I’m sure people mean well. I’m not saying that it’s some vast, sinister, patriarchal conspiracy, but it is pervasive in our culture. It’s not just sexual comments that constitute unwanted attention. It’s not just a leer that makes me feel like I’m just window dressing. It’s these kinds of comments too.

I know most people won’t agree with me. Most people will say something along the lines of, “Can’t she just take a compliment?” It’s what my editor said to me too.

I’m not a dog.

I’m not a car.

I’m not a vintage bicycle or a hand-painted sign, and unless we’ve exchanged at least a few pleasantries about the weather, I don’t want to hear what you think about my hair, my eyeliner, my clothes or my boobs.

No matter how well-intentioned you are.