Read Online The Botox Diaries by Janice Kaplan, Lynn Schnurnberger - Free Book Online
Authors: Janice Kaplan, Lynn Schnurnberger
Ads: Link
what seemed like forever. You can’t imagine how he looked at me, Jess. Like I’m the only woman in the world. You can’t imagine.”
But I can imagine. Perfectly. Just so happens I saw that look this morning, too. And while I don’t track the Nielsen ratings, I’d have to guess so did a couple of million other women who happened to be watching morning TV. It may be Hunter Green’s
only
look.
Lucy’s other line rings and I’m spared while she gets it. She comes back swearing that the other call really is business and so we say good-bye, promising to talk later.
I hang up and go back to pacing. I’ve had all I can take of television stars and lovesick friends and …
prolactin?
What the heck was that about? My best friend is screwing around with some beef jerky game show host and I’m giving adult sex-education lectures. But I’m not going to think about that right now. It’ll give me worry lines. And that’s the last thing I need, even if I am on my way to the dermatologist.
Unlike Lucy, who wouldn’t make an appointment with a doctor she couldn’t flirt with, I’m about to go to my first visit with Dr. Marsha Linda Kaye. Maybe because she’s a woman she takes her patients on time. So at exactly twelve-fifteen I’m lying stark naked on her black leather examining table, my butt sticking to the thin crinkly paper on top, while Dr. Kaye scans my body from head to toe with a magnifying mirror that must make every pimple and pore look as large as Bryce Canyon. I cringe to think of what it must be doing to the cellulite.
“Everything looks okay mole-wise,” she says after ten long minutes of scrutiny. “Nothing unusual. At your age you have to expect a few discolorations, but as long as they’re not raised there’s nothing to worry about.”
I point to the one brown spot on my chest that’s brought me to this $250 visit. “What about this?”
Dr. Kaye moves the magnifying mirror. She peers. She prods. She takes a thin metal pointer-thingy and pokes the spot a few times. “I don’t see a problem,” she says reassuringly.
I feel relieved. Momentarily.
“We can do a biopsy if you’re concerned,” she says, and when I don’t immediately protest, she dabs the area with a numbing solution. Before it has a chance to completely work, she’s scraping with a tiny razor edge and dabbing the cells onto a prepared slide.
“Ninety-nine percent sure it’s nothing,” she says, applying a small bandage now to the spot, “but now you won’t have to worry about it.” She moves the magnifying glass over to my face and adds, “If I were you, I’d be a lot more concerned about the broken blood vessels at your nose. What do you say we give them a
zap
right now?”
From nowhere, she points a Flash Gordon–like laser gun at my nose.
“Ah, nah, that’s okay,” I say, trying to grab back some dignity bypulling up the paper dressing gown. “Those red spots have been there so long I hardly notice them. I just use a little concealer and—”
“Nonsense, Jessica. This is the twenty-first century. You don’t need concealer when we can fix it permanently.” She laughs. “Trust me, this is minor. It’ll just take a sec.”
I’m tempted, but since I’ve been known to beg for Novocain before a teeth cleaning, and I’ve already been attacked (however gently) with a razor, I ask, “Will it hurt?”
“Hurts for a second and looks good forever.”
Which means it hurts.
“And what exactly do you do?” I ask, stalling for time.
She briefly describes the laser’s pulsating electricity, then adds, “This one will be on the house. No charge.”
Well, that’s interesting. I’ve heard they give the first vial of crack away free, too.
She reaches for a pair of eye goggles. For herself, not for me, I suddenly realize. Hello, if the laser’s pointing at my face, why does she get the protective goggles?
“Are you sure this won’t hurt too much?” I ask again.
“Trust me,” she says,
But I can imagine. Perfectly. Just so happens I saw that look this morning, too. And while I don’t track the Nielsen ratings, I’d have to guess so did a couple of million other women who happened to be watching morning TV. It may be Hunter Green’s
only
look.
Lucy’s other line rings and I’m spared while she gets it. She comes back swearing that the other call really is business and so we say good-bye, promising to talk later.
I hang up and go back to pacing. I’ve had all I can take of television stars and lovesick friends and …
prolactin?
What the heck was that about? My best friend is screwing around with some beef jerky game show host and I’m giving adult sex-education lectures. But I’m not going to think about that right now. It’ll give me worry lines. And that’s the last thing I need, even if I am on my way to the dermatologist.
Unlike Lucy, who wouldn’t make an appointment with a doctor she couldn’t flirt with, I’m about to go to my first visit with Dr. Marsha Linda Kaye. Maybe because she’s a woman she takes her patients on time. So at exactly twelve-fifteen I’m lying stark naked on her black leather examining table, my butt sticking to the thin crinkly paper on top, while Dr. Kaye scans my body from head to toe with a magnifying mirror that must make every pimple and pore look as large as Bryce Canyon. I cringe to think of what it must be doing to the cellulite.
“Everything looks okay mole-wise,” she says after ten long minutes of scrutiny. “Nothing unusual. At your age you have to expect a few discolorations, but as long as they’re not raised there’s nothing to worry about.”
I point to the one brown spot on my chest that’s brought me to this $250 visit. “What about this?”
Dr. Kaye moves the magnifying mirror. She peers. She prods. She takes a thin metal pointer-thingy and pokes the spot a few times. “I don’t see a problem,” she says reassuringly.
I feel relieved. Momentarily.
“We can do a biopsy if you’re concerned,” she says, and when I don’t immediately protest, she dabs the area with a numbing solution. Before it has a chance to completely work, she’s scraping with a tiny razor edge and dabbing the cells onto a prepared slide.
“Ninety-nine percent sure it’s nothing,” she says, applying a small bandage now to the spot, “but now you won’t have to worry about it.” She moves the magnifying glass over to my face and adds, “If I were you, I’d be a lot more concerned about the broken blood vessels at your nose. What do you say we give them a
zap
right now?”
From nowhere, she points a Flash Gordon–like laser gun at my nose.
“Ah, nah, that’s okay,” I say, trying to grab back some dignity bypulling up the paper dressing gown. “Those red spots have been there so long I hardly notice them. I just use a little concealer and—”
“Nonsense, Jessica. This is the twenty-first century. You don’t need concealer when we can fix it permanently.” She laughs. “Trust me, this is minor. It’ll just take a sec.”
I’m tempted, but since I’ve been known to beg for Novocain before a teeth cleaning, and I’ve already been attacked (however gently) with a razor, I ask, “Will it hurt?”
“Hurts for a second and looks good forever.”
Which means it hurts.
“And what exactly do you do?” I ask, stalling for time.
She briefly describes the laser’s pulsating electricity, then adds, “This one will be on the house. No charge.”
Well, that’s interesting. I’ve heard they give the first vial of crack away free, too.
She reaches for a pair of eye goggles. For herself, not for me, I suddenly realize. Hello, if the laser’s pointing at my face, why does she get the protective goggles?
“Are you sure this won’t hurt too much?” I ask again.
“Trust me,” she says,
Similar Books
