She only comes to cut my hair but in the process she tries to boss me about. Latest was her opinion on my leg wound.
On her last visit the wound was healing nicely. The four-inch scab had reduced to an inch – not bad from my original estimate. Thing is, she reckoned I should see the doctor on the basis that she believed my leg was infected. Was it heck! I would know if it was. I tried pointing out that the latest wound was on top of an old wound. When I say old, I mean OLD, like when I was eighteen years of age.
I had a very nasty accident then, after my dress caught fire and I ended up in hospital for three months having skin grafts all over my backside and part of an arm where I tried to brush the flames away. The grafting skin was taken from my legs, cut into stamp size pieces and placed on the wound on my backside. Clever stuff, because from there the pieces spread across the flesh until they grew to love each other and covered the whole area. They called it knitting, but it wasn’t the sort of knitting I was used to. To this day, I can still see where the skin was taken from on my legs and this is what the hairdresser could see.
Would she be told? No, instead she insisted that the latest wound was infected because of the reddish stripes.
Why won’t people listen?
After writing the above I got to thinking about the way people talk to each other. It’s only when I reached old age that I realised many people treat oldies as if they’re senile. They start explaining what they mean when we understand perfectly well, particularly those of us who are not deaf. Sometimes I feel like screaming ‘I DO understand. I am NOT stupid’. Perhaps I should say it? Perhaps people younger than me don’t realise that old age doesn’t always mean a complete abandonment of faculties. Oh well, I’ve had my moan, I shall just carry on carrying on!!