Read Online The Botox Diaries by Janice Kaplan, Lynn Schnurnberger - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janice Kaplan, Lynn Schnurnberger
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adjusting her goggles and pointing the gun squarely between my eyes.
Sure, now I can relax. So I close my eyes, grit my teeth and when the jolt comes, I’m okay with the quick, stinging pain that’s not much worse than an insect bite. But it’s followed by a smell that could be a slab of sirloin on a sizzling grill. Me, medium rare.
“Is my skin burning?” I ask, panicked.
“Take it easy.” Dr. Kaye’s smiling like a Cheshire cat and holding a gilt-edged mirror in front of me. And darn if she isn’t right—my face is slightly flushed, but the blotches that have bracketed my nostrils for twenty years are gone. Just like that. It really is a miracle. Who cares about the Red Sea parting when you can witness the red lines disappearing?
“See, didn’t I tell you?” she beams. “Little things like this don’t have to bother you. We can fix just about anything.”
And now, of course, I’m hooked. Is anything truly possible? My mind races, making a top-to-bottom inventory. Can Dr. Marsha LindaKaye do something about those age spots I can no longer pass off as freckles? The blue spider veins that crawl down my leg?
I hesitate, but can’t resist. “What would you recommend?” I ask.
She runs her fingers gently across my face. “I’d keep it simple right now. We’ll just give you a B&C.”
“A B&C?” I have a moment of panic. “Don’t you go to a gynecologist for that?”
She laughs, but then she continues on with business. “A B&C—that’s Botox and collagen. Start with some Botox right here.” She touches an offensive wrinkle I never knew I had. “And collagen on the naso-labial lines. That would make a big difference.”
Naso-labial lines? How have I missed those? If I don’t attack with collagen and Botox right now, will my face eventually look like an Amish quilt? Even though I’m looking at forty in the rearview mirror, I thought I was holding up pretty well. But Dr. Kaye, with her professional eye, knows better.
“The other procedure you should consider right away is a glycolic peel,” she says. “Any of my patients will tell you it takes five years off the face.” She glances at her watch. “If you want to wait about ten minutes, I might even be able to do it today.”
I sit up abruptly, grabbing at the paper robe and eyeing my own clothes across the room. “No, thanks. No time today. I’ll think about it, though.” And I probably will, damn it. What happened to the no-maintenance-me who used to leave the house with wet hair and a swish of lip gloss? Just yesterday I was almost reeled in by a spiel about a $155 miracle cream that was developed by a NASA scientist because the saleswoman at Bloomies promised it was “age-defying.”
Cream, maybe. But no Botox today. That’s too much of a leap. Besides, that first
zap
was on the house, but the rest won’t be, and for a B&C—oh gosh, who came up with
that
abbreviation?—I’d have to break into Jen’s college fund. Which I won’t do because my priorities are still straight. At least I think they are. But I’d better get out of here quickly before Dr. Kaye tells me that she takes American Express.
* * *
Back home I log on to my computer to try to get some work done, but fat chance that’s going to happen today. Nasty images of Lucy and Hunter performing seminude contortions in an erotic Cirque du Soleil keep running through my head like a broken DVD. And then, so much worse, I see Botox needles chasing the three of us around the room. I ditch the work idea and decide to check my e-mail. I have three new messages, which immediately makes me think I must be popular. Then I start opening them and I realize I’m popular only with retailers. Home Depot is having a spring sale—twenty percent off toilets and fertilizer. Next message: JCPenney is having a spring sale—thirty percent off fancy bras (don’t get me started again). And who’s having a spring sale in message number three? The subject line says this one is
Sure, now I can relax. So I close my eyes, grit my teeth and when the jolt comes, I’m okay with the quick, stinging pain that’s not much worse than an insect bite. But it’s followed by a smell that could be a slab of sirloin on a sizzling grill. Me, medium rare.
“Is my skin burning?” I ask, panicked.
“Take it easy.” Dr. Kaye’s smiling like a Cheshire cat and holding a gilt-edged mirror in front of me. And darn if she isn’t right—my face is slightly flushed, but the blotches that have bracketed my nostrils for twenty years are gone. Just like that. It really is a miracle. Who cares about the Red Sea parting when you can witness the red lines disappearing?
“See, didn’t I tell you?” she beams. “Little things like this don’t have to bother you. We can fix just about anything.”
And now, of course, I’m hooked. Is anything truly possible? My mind races, making a top-to-bottom inventory. Can Dr. Marsha LindaKaye do something about those age spots I can no longer pass off as freckles? The blue spider veins that crawl down my leg?
I hesitate, but can’t resist. “What would you recommend?” I ask.
She runs her fingers gently across my face. “I’d keep it simple right now. We’ll just give you a B&C.”
“A B&C?” I have a moment of panic. “Don’t you go to a gynecologist for that?”
She laughs, but then she continues on with business. “A B&C—that’s Botox and collagen. Start with some Botox right here.” She touches an offensive wrinkle I never knew I had. “And collagen on the naso-labial lines. That would make a big difference.”
Naso-labial lines? How have I missed those? If I don’t attack with collagen and Botox right now, will my face eventually look like an Amish quilt? Even though I’m looking at forty in the rearview mirror, I thought I was holding up pretty well. But Dr. Kaye, with her professional eye, knows better.
“The other procedure you should consider right away is a glycolic peel,” she says. “Any of my patients will tell you it takes five years off the face.” She glances at her watch. “If you want to wait about ten minutes, I might even be able to do it today.”
I sit up abruptly, grabbing at the paper robe and eyeing my own clothes across the room. “No, thanks. No time today. I’ll think about it, though.” And I probably will, damn it. What happened to the no-maintenance-me who used to leave the house with wet hair and a swish of lip gloss? Just yesterday I was almost reeled in by a spiel about a $155 miracle cream that was developed by a NASA scientist because the saleswoman at Bloomies promised it was “age-defying.”
Cream, maybe. But no Botox today. That’s too much of a leap. Besides, that first
zap
was on the house, but the rest won’t be, and for a B&C—oh gosh, who came up with
that
abbreviation?—I’d have to break into Jen’s college fund. Which I won’t do because my priorities are still straight. At least I think they are. But I’d better get out of here quickly before Dr. Kaye tells me that she takes American Express.
* * *
Back home I log on to my computer to try to get some work done, but fat chance that’s going to happen today. Nasty images of Lucy and Hunter performing seminude contortions in an erotic Cirque du Soleil keep running through my head like a broken DVD. And then, so much worse, I see Botox needles chasing the three of us around the room. I ditch the work idea and decide to check my e-mail. I have three new messages, which immediately makes me think I must be popular. Then I start opening them and I realize I’m popular only with retailers. Home Depot is having a spring sale—twenty percent off toilets and fertilizer. Next message: JCPenney is having a spring sale—thirty percent off fancy bras (don’t get me started again). And who’s having a spring sale in message number three? The subject line says this one is
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