I found myself admiring a homeless person today

There's a homeless man I walk by every morning on the way to the T. He always sleeps on the same bench in sort of a mini-park area that runs alongside Mass. Ave. It's actually a nice spot.

Sometimes when I walk by he's still asleep. But other times, like today, he was "getting ready." I've seen this ritual a few times now and it fascinates me; he lays all his stuff out on the bench and neatly folds his clothes and things, and then dons a jacket and tie and moves on. If I didn't know better I'd swear he was getting ready for work, and if I hadn't seen him sleeping there during a few late-night walks home I might still wonder about that.

It tells me that no matter how dire his situation might be—and how humiliating it must be (or, at one time, must have been) to plainly and repeatedly reveal to hundreds of people that you sleep on a bench—he retains dignity. Maybe the clothes he wears aren't fresh out of the wash, but if I saw him strolling downtown I likely wouldn't think anything of it (except maybe for all the bags he lugs around).

Contrast him with this offensive woman from the shantytown that overcomes the Coop's entryway every night. Now I know that dreadlocks, for some people, have a spiritual significance. But this woman has one giant, horrifying dreadlock down to her ass. (She reminds me of the green woman who danced for Jabba the Hutt, with those droopy things coming off her head. Minus the "Holy shit, I'm about to be eaten by the Rancor!" expression.) I'm sure there are civilizations of things living in that ugly mass. She and that thing sit Indian style on the sidewalk with her hand jutting out, waiting for her share. What an asshole.

Without going into the politics of homelessness and whether or not these folks deserve my change, these two represent opposite ends of the public-face-of-the-street-person scale—and the dignity scale as well.