Meet Kevin Leak, South African palm reader to the stars. (Photo: Paula Froelich)
I had no idea what a chirologist was until I went to South Africa. I don’t feel that bad about not knowing — the spell checker and auto-dictionary in Word on my MacBook Air doesn’t know what one is, and I’m convinced that it knows everything. But when my driver in Johannesburg told me out of the blue that he had a friend who used to be a prison warden and was now a chirologist, I pulled a Scooby Doo (your head swings around and you say, loudly, “WHUH?”).
Turns out, chirology is a fancy name for palm reading.
Kevin Leak, the chirologist, used to be a prison warden (he once watched over Nelson Mandela) and now reads palm prints. He even did a reading of President Obama’s hand for the South African Times.
Kevin reads my hand. (Photo: Paula Froelich)
We met at Rhapsody restaurant in Pretoria, outside of Johannesburg, and Kevin immediately went to work. He pulled out a roller, inked it up, rolled it over my palms, and took my prints.
“I feel like a criminal,” I laughed.
Kevin did not laugh.
He pulled out a magnifying glass and started studying my palm and thumb prints.
Kevin takes his job very seriously. (Photo: Paula Froelich)
“I can’t give you a full reading right now, obviously,” he said, “but here’s a bit…”
According to Kevin (and my palm prints):
“The right hand represents the personality.” I have “a strong guardian angel” who came to me after I was 24 … a specific event happened (point, Kevin: At 24, I moved back to the United States from London).
I have a “peacock’s-eye print” on one finger, which means I am creative, especially when it comes to solving problems (another point, Kevin: I’m the best problem solver I know! Especially if I’m stuck in Vegas at 3 a.m. with $2 left to my name).
I have no line indicating relationships — “At this stage in [my] life, [I] have no need for one, and if [I] get into one, it will interfere with [my] life.” (Crap. Well, there goes the Muthi prophecy.)
I apparently think too much.
I have a way with animals. “[I] can give [my] energy to animals … and they can steal it as well. [I] heal them that way, too.” WTF? If I’m so healer-y, then why did Karl the Yahoo mascot / wonder dachshund have to get seven teeth pulled and break his foot the other week? Where was my healing then? My bank account, severely drained by my vet bills, wants to know.
Apparently, I am a porthole in which the universe sends information. (I feel so manga.)
I don’t like to be told what to do. (Who, outside of the military, does?)
I am a master of anger. Liver is good. (Good to know. Take that, Jim Beam!)
I have sadness. My lungs are an issue. (It’s true. I’m sad that I smoked for all those years and that my lungs probably look like the inside of a coal mine.)
I struggle with anxiety (That’s a gimme. I live in New York!)
I take most things with a grain of salt, but this was fun. Especially to freak out everyone at the restaurant. If you’re in or around Johannesburg, give him a call.
Full report costs 800 Rand ($80)
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