Good-looking individuals are treated better than homely ones in

In the stark pronouncement of Martha Beck—“Good-looking individuals are treated better than homely ones in virtually every social situation, from dating to trial by jury”—we hear an old, uncomfortable law spoken plainly. The sentence is a mirror held to the tribe: we bow to the altar of appearance and call it instinct; we mistake symmetry for virtue and charm for character. The ancients knew to fear such enchantments. Beauty is a bright coin, but it buys deference far beyond its worth, and too often it is spent against the poor in face and fortune alike.

This is not a curse upon beauty; it is a warning about partial sight. Our eyes, eager for ease, take shortcuts—adorning the good-looking with imagined honesty, competence, and kindness, while burdening the homely with suspicion or neglect. In dating, smiles open doors before questions are asked; in a trial by jury, the same smile may sand the rough edges of doubt. Thus the proverb hides a tragedy: we allow the shine of the vessel to season the taste of the wine, and justice drinks from tilted cups.

The origin of this bias is older than cities—an animal’s reflex dressed in a citizen’s robe. We praise health, read youth as promise, and confuse proportion with trustworthiness. But the elders also taught that the first glance is the least reliable. The oracle speaks in riddles; the hero arrives disguised; the god walks the road as a beggar. When we enthrone the first glance, we exile wisdom. The village that crowns beauty without proving character inherits sweet words and bitter years.

Consider a story that history keeps for our sobriety. Socrates, whose face was mocked as coarse and ill-formed, drank the hemlock rather than flee the verdict of his city. Handsome men swayed crowds with polished rhetoric; the “ugly” philosopher labored to awaken conscience. Athens, entranced by spectacle, punished the one whose countenance did not flatter its gaze. Or recall Abraham Lincoln, called ungainly by his rivals, yet steady as a plumb line when the republic trembled. In both lives, greatness wore a plain coat while lesser men wore the laurels of good-looking favor.

A more intimate parable: a young woman, awkward in posture and dress, stands in line for an interview behind a candidate whose presence glows like polished metal. The panel warms to the glow before a syllable is spoken; the awkward one must scale a colder wall. Later, at a friend’s jury service, a defendant’s elegant bearing manicures the room’s doubt. Even as the evidence tilts, eyes drift toward cheekbones as if bone could absolve. The biases are not shouted; they hum like wiring behind the walls. Beck names the hum so we will not pretend the lights power themselves.

What, then, shall the tribe remember? That fairness requires ritual to counter reflex. The builders of just cities invent ways to dim the spell: blind auditions behind a curtain, structured questions that seize the wheel from charm, jury instructions that name bias aloud so it can be watched. In private life, the same craft is needed: ask what you are admiring—competence or complexion; kindness or charisma; promise or prettiness. If you cannot tell, slow down. Time is the enemy of enchantment and the friend of truth.

Let the lesson be hammered into daily use. (1) In dating, write your virtues-before-appearance list and keep it near your hunger; practice three dates of listening before judgment, so character has time to surface. (2) In hiring or assessment, standardize questions, delay photographs, and score answers before you see faces. (3) In civic duty—especially trial by jury—say, quietly and repeatedly, “Attractiveness is not evidence,” and ask yourself what single fact would convince you if the face were different. (4) In friendship, cultivate the unbeautiful courage of noticing the overlooked: invite, include, and defer to the voice that has learned to speak without the crutch of applause.

At last, hold this wisdom with tenderness. Some are wounded by being ignored; others are distorted by being adored. The good-looking may be forgiven their unearned ease if they spend it on mercy; the homely may be honored for the fortitude by which they have learned to love without advantage. Let each of us seek the beauty that endures—the structure of a kept promise, the symmetry of justice, the radiance of a patient heart. Then the village will grow less dazzled and more discerning, and our social situations—from dating booths to jury boxes—will begin to resemble the kingdom the elders hoped for: where faces are welcomed, but truth is enthroned.