The Unkindest Cut

I went to the beauty parlor yesterday for a long-overdue rinse-and-set.

As she finished, the stylist asked, "Do you want to have the lady take a look?" She meant my mother, who as usual had accompanied me.

Never mind that many of the clippings on my smock were white. Never mind that it's been a quarter of a century since my mom held veto power for my haircuts.

This was hardly an isolated incident. People began talking louder and slower the day I began using a wheelchair. I don't know why, exactly -- maybe because my face is lower than theirs. I like to think there's still a glimmer of intelligence in my eyes, but perhaps I flatter myself. And if people suspect I might be retarded, my heavily impaired speech can only reinforce the impression.

My ego might be in tatters, but my sense of humor, luckily, is intact. I'm sure Miss Thing wondered why the little retarded boy couldn't stop laughing. Must be part of his condition.