|March 22nd 2009
We are under what those men and women
with perfect hair call a 'settled weather pattern.' They will
gesture vaguely at the map.
It is a
political few seconds for them. A chance to promenade, discuss an
interest in skiing, or sunbathing, or dog walking. Or one of those
interests that we are presumed to all share.
The assumption of these various universals have me apparently confined to
a wheelchair. Far from developing an empathy between us, which their
banter is I think designed to do, I find myself critical of the chirpy
little world they profess to represent.
In a sense it's the creep of age. In a sense it's a discordance
between my world and theirs. And in a sense it has to do with the
time and resource devoted to those perfect hairstyles.