I was seated in a small, sunny room that smelled of dusty carpet. Across the table from me, looking at my upturned palms, was a man with a long beard and thinning hair around his temples. He traced a line along the meaty part of my palm, just below my fingers.
‘You’re not money-minded,’ he said. ‘You’re nurturing. You care more about what you do than what you get for doing it.’
I nodded, buying into his assessment of me in the way most people would buy into vague statements phrased in a flattering light. I would get married, he said. I would become a mother, he said. I would have three children, he said.
Okay, he lost me.
My reading was a far cry from my boyfriend’s, who had gone immediately before me.
‘You care more about monetary success now than you used to,’ David the palm reader had told Max. ‘Your career will take you overseas. You need more power to accomplish what you want to do.’
Funnily, my boyfriend is a professional activist who has devoted his life to helping others. Me? I’m a slave to the corporate machine. I have a degree in advertising and a haze of concern for my financial prosperity always in my periphery.
But money is gendered. Girls want love; boys want money – even palm-readers know it.