When I dress for a run, I put my headphones in, and I run the wire under my long-sleeve shirt to the music player that perches on my wrist. I cuff my shirt over the player to hold it in place. The shirt is like a second-skin.
I hope for some near-future time when the music player would be implanted and the headphones would be braided into my auditory nerve. That would be so convenient. I wouldn’t even have to worry about blue-tooth. Of course, if things went bad, like there was an infection or rejection, it could get ugly.
In a vision, I imagine a young cyborg coming down for breakfast, much like my children do, dragging, disheveled, not quite dressed.
The mom-cyborg says, “OMG! My son! My computer! Put on some clothes – a kilt, a burka, a cloak – something! For Ford’s sake! I can see all your wires… Gross!”