Read Online I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places by Lisa Scottoline - Free Book Online Page A

news story reported that a hospital-room booking with a stylist from an upscale salon can cost as much as $700.
    I can’t think of a better use for the money, the day your baby is born.
    College funds can wait.
    The only way to improve this idea is to have the hairstylist blow-dry the infant’s hair, too.
    Nobody’s hair looks worse than on the day they’re born.
    Babies don’t have bed head, they have birth-canal head.
    It’s not pretty, and infants need to learn the importance of pretty from day one.
    You never get a second chance to make a first impression.
    Especially if it’s your very very first impression.
    Of course, both of these major developments in women’s health came about not because hospitals or government wanted them, but because women want them.
    We have met the enemy and it is us.
    We haven’t gotten the message that our True Value has nothing to do with the way we look.
    It has to do with how many people we make feel guilty.

 
    Judge Doorman
    Francesca
    Manhattan doormen are famous for being completely discreet and nonjudgmental. Somebody just needs to tell mine that.
    My doorman is totally judgmental. He’s the most opinionated man I’ve ever met, and he never holds fire. He’s a macho Dominican man who can throw drag-queen levels of shade.
    And I love him.
    You know how everyone needs that friend who tells it to you straight? He’s mine.
    My closest girlfriends don’t tell me the truth. They flatter me and build me up, and I like that about them. Female friendship is based upon voicing your fears and insecurities and having someone to go, “SHUT. UP. You are so perfect.”
    My doorman provides balance. He works the day shift, so he sees me first thing in the morning when I walk my dog. If I get any less than eight hours of sleep or skip the mascara, I hear:
    â€œYou look tired, Princess.”
    And yes, he calls me “Princess.” And “mi corazón.” And “my dear.”
    These pet names help soften the blow when he says something like he did last week: “I don’t see you in your gym clothes anymore.”
    â€œI’m going at night!” I lied.
    But the next morning, I got my butt to the gym. He keeps me accountable. And he was a pretty great cheerleader last year when I was trying to shape up.
    He also gives unsolicited fashion advice.
    â€œI don’t like that coat.”
    â€œI just bought this coat!” It was a camel-colored wrap coat that I had finally splurged on after obsessing over it for a month, trying on six different versions of it in various stores, and texting dressing-room selfies to my mom and best friend.
    He shrugged. “Mmm, I don’t like it. It’s too big for you.”
    â€œIt’s oversized and slouchy, that’s the look .”
    â€œYou don’t need to hide in a big coat. You lost weight since the summer.”
    Guilting me about the gym had paid off.
    But I still think my coat is chic and have defiantly worn it all autumn. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t tie it a little tighter at the waist.
    Sometimes I seek out his opinion—why, I don’t know. Last month, I bought a watch online for my best guy friend’s thirtieth birthday. I was so excited when my doorman told me it had arrived, I opened it up right there in the lobby to show him.
    â€œWhat do you think, pretty nice, huh?”
    â€œGold?” He furrowed his brow.
    â€œYeah, well, in color.”
    â€œI prefer silver watches. It’s more masculine. But if he likes gold…”
    I snatched it back. Luckily, when I presented the watch to my friend, he did like gold. At least, I think he was telling me the truth.
    When it comes to my love life, my doorman is the wise-cracking, overprotective father I never had. He sizes up every guy I bring by, and although my doorman is as inscrutable as the Sphinx to their faces, behind their backs, he gets catty.
    When