What springs to mind when you think about generation X?” I ask my hairdresser, who is in her mid-thirties. She puts down her scissors and squints at me in the mirror. “I’m gen X,” I prompt. Her brow furrows further. “I mean, I feel like I don’t really have any thoughts about your generation,” she finally admits. “You guys just sort of chug along and don’t harm anyone, do you? You’re not hoarding all the houses and wealth like the boomers and you’re not jumping up and down and loudly demanding stuff like gen Y. Yeah, no. You seem really nice, I guess, but other than that, I don’t really know what you are.”
“I don’t really know what you are” could easily be the generational tagline of those of us born between 1965 and 1980, the small,
