Read Online The Best Laid Plans by Lynn Schnurnberger - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lynn Schnurnberger
Ads: Link
anointed him the architect of the New New Face—which looks like what your old face used to look like, only better.
Sienna and I settle back in our seats. Dr. B. pulls on a pair ofgloves and traces what used to be the hollows under my eyes. “Looking good. This Perlane’s really holding up,” he says. The nurse lines up a row of clear bottles and hands Dr. B. a set of hypodermic needles on a silver tray. He stabs a syringe into the top of one of his magic potions and plunges it into my cheek. Again. And, ooh, here it comes, again. “Just another little squirt, to pump up the volume,” Dr. B. says, pursing his lips as the needle goes in, yes, again.
I pick up the mirror and see, despite a few pricks, that I’m already looking so much more fresher and relaxed. My mood, along with my face, immediately lifts. “Can you imagine what Picasso would have done with Perlane?” I giggle.
“You mean crossing women’s eyes, flattening their heads, and reassembling their body parts?” Dr. B. laughs. “That old goat did enough damage with a paintbrush. But imagine what Michelangelo could have done with collagen!”
Over the next several minutes Dr. B. changes needles, choosing from an arsenal of modern beauty ammunition that includes Botox to freeze forehead muscles and hyaluronic and fillers like Juvederm to fill in lines around our mouths. As he loads another syringe to zap the folds between my nose and my mouth—unfunnily referred to as “laugh lines”—the good doctor lets out a whoop.
“This is the Evolence, it’s made out of pig and a rabbi blessed it. Not exactly kosher.” Dr. B. laughs. “But it works.”
Sienna always says that Botox is like face cocaine. You get a little, and you just want more and more. Today, I’d swear it’s a muscle relaxant. Dishing with Sienna and Dr. B., I can feel the tension absolutely drain from my whole body. The radio is tuned to the lite FM station, programmed for contemporary soft rock to appeal to the over-forty crowd who can’t stand rap, but who don’t want to spend the next decade listening to thegreatest hits of the eighties, either. I’d always thought of music as a great equalizer, bringing people together—but I defy any parent to spend five earsplitting minutes with their teenager listening to Kanye West before they run screaming from the room. Sienna and Dr. B. are bantering about the latest
Dancing with the Stars
contestants when all of a sudden, a newscaster breaks in with an announcement.
“Bankruptcy … emergency loan … housing market … shit!”
I don’t catch every word, but I hear enough. Peter had warned me that his company was just the tip of the iceberg, but in my wildest dreams—or nightmares—I’d never imagined that the whole economy was going down.
Three more nurses come rushing into Dr. B.’s office, followed by a line of patients in various stages of treatment—and distress.
“The market’s crashing,” a woman whose hair is tied back in a high ponytail cries. She clutches the latex glove filled with frozen peas that you usually hold against a bruise, to her heart.
“How much to do my eyes today and not the lips?” asks another woman, already in economy mode.
Sienna’s reaction is pure newscaster. “Did the announcer really say ‘shit’?”
“Everyone, ladies, take a deep breath,” says Dr. B. “Get your head out of your hands, Millie,” he says, going over to the frozen-pea-holding woman, who’s burst into tears. “You don’t want the CosmoDerm getting all lumpy, now do you?”
Ready to jump on the story, Sienna grabs for her BlackBerry and punches in the news desk’s number. On the seventh unanswered ring, she punches the phone. “Goddamn it, they see my caller ID and won’t pick up. The biggest story of thedecade and I’ve nobody to report it for!” She pauses as the reality of the situation hits closer to home. “This probably wasn’t the best time to quit my job.”
There are wails and
Sienna and I settle back in our seats. Dr. B. pulls on a pair ofgloves and traces what used to be the hollows under my eyes. “Looking good. This Perlane’s really holding up,” he says. The nurse lines up a row of clear bottles and hands Dr. B. a set of hypodermic needles on a silver tray. He stabs a syringe into the top of one of his magic potions and plunges it into my cheek. Again. And, ooh, here it comes, again. “Just another little squirt, to pump up the volume,” Dr. B. says, pursing his lips as the needle goes in, yes, again.
I pick up the mirror and see, despite a few pricks, that I’m already looking so much more fresher and relaxed. My mood, along with my face, immediately lifts. “Can you imagine what Picasso would have done with Perlane?” I giggle.
“You mean crossing women’s eyes, flattening their heads, and reassembling their body parts?” Dr. B. laughs. “That old goat did enough damage with a paintbrush. But imagine what Michelangelo could have done with collagen!”
Over the next several minutes Dr. B. changes needles, choosing from an arsenal of modern beauty ammunition that includes Botox to freeze forehead muscles and hyaluronic and fillers like Juvederm to fill in lines around our mouths. As he loads another syringe to zap the folds between my nose and my mouth—unfunnily referred to as “laugh lines”—the good doctor lets out a whoop.
“This is the Evolence, it’s made out of pig and a rabbi blessed it. Not exactly kosher.” Dr. B. laughs. “But it works.”
Sienna always says that Botox is like face cocaine. You get a little, and you just want more and more. Today, I’d swear it’s a muscle relaxant. Dishing with Sienna and Dr. B., I can feel the tension absolutely drain from my whole body. The radio is tuned to the lite FM station, programmed for contemporary soft rock to appeal to the over-forty crowd who can’t stand rap, but who don’t want to spend the next decade listening to thegreatest hits of the eighties, either. I’d always thought of music as a great equalizer, bringing people together—but I defy any parent to spend five earsplitting minutes with their teenager listening to Kanye West before they run screaming from the room. Sienna and Dr. B. are bantering about the latest
Dancing with the Stars
contestants when all of a sudden, a newscaster breaks in with an announcement.
“Bankruptcy … emergency loan … housing market … shit!”
I don’t catch every word, but I hear enough. Peter had warned me that his company was just the tip of the iceberg, but in my wildest dreams—or nightmares—I’d never imagined that the whole economy was going down.
Three more nurses come rushing into Dr. B.’s office, followed by a line of patients in various stages of treatment—and distress.
“The market’s crashing,” a woman whose hair is tied back in a high ponytail cries. She clutches the latex glove filled with frozen peas that you usually hold against a bruise, to her heart.
“How much to do my eyes today and not the lips?” asks another woman, already in economy mode.
Sienna’s reaction is pure newscaster. “Did the announcer really say ‘shit’?”
“Everyone, ladies, take a deep breath,” says Dr. B. “Get your head out of your hands, Millie,” he says, going over to the frozen-pea-holding woman, who’s burst into tears. “You don’t want the CosmoDerm getting all lumpy, now do you?”
Ready to jump on the story, Sienna grabs for her BlackBerry and punches in the news desk’s number. On the seventh unanswered ring, she punches the phone. “Goddamn it, they see my caller ID and won’t pick up. The biggest story of thedecade and I’ve nobody to report it for!” She pauses as the reality of the situation hits closer to home. “This probably wasn’t the best time to quit my job.”
There are wails and
Similar Books
