would have lost the will to survive right then and there. I had enough problems just trying to remember to sit like a lady when wearing a skirt.
So, while delighted that I held my open houses during the nineties when going the extra mile in landscaping your private yard meant having used a brand-new razor and not in the current times when having a bleached anus would be listed in the “plus” column in the dating pool, I still had the chin hair to contend with, and when I saw the posters up in Dr. Wells’s office, I nearly squealed like the little piggy whose chin I had. I had been far too sensitive and embarrassed to seek out a proprietor of such services on my own, but here it was, as good as being delivered to me on a surgical steel platter. When Dr. Wells’s nurse came in to take my medical history, I jumped on the chance.
“I want laser hair removal. I know I’m here for the weird freckle, but I want laser hair removal instead. Can we do it? Can we do it today?” I asked frantically.
“Well,” the nurse said, laughing, “it doesn’t really work like that. We do the procedure on-site, but we have a technician who comes in once a month to operate the technical aspects of it, though Dr. Wells actually does the lasering. And…we currently have a long waiting list. It fills up pretty quickly. Where were you thinking of having it done—legs, bikini, breasts, anu—”
“God no!” I spat. “No. I have no desire for the physical attributes of a fetus. Besides, this property has been sold for quite a while, so I’m only interested in public areas, like my chin.”
“Well, let’s take a look,” she said as she swung a bright light over and scanned my chin. “Hmmm. You pluck, correct?”
I nodded.
“In that case, it wouldn’t be successful until the hair is grown out and visible, so I would say you could do your first session in about three months, and you can’t pluck up until then.”
“Oh, you’re kidding,” I moaned, knowing that the whole deal was off. “Forget it. I can’t do that. I’d come back in three months looking like ZZ Top. I’d rather let my roots grow out than my circus-lady beard. I knew it was too good to be true.”
“Now, wait,” the nurse advised me. “You can’t pluck because Dr. Wells needs to see the follicle he’s zapping. But you can shave. That would eliminate the length of the hair and keep the follicle intact.”
Well, that would be delightful, I thought to myself. My biggest dream come true. I get to look at the mirror every day and shave my face like a boy on the cusp of manhood. Oh, good, maybe I’ll get some pungent BO, contract athlete’s foot, and stick a poster of Pamela Anderson behind my bedroom door, too, just to round out the picture.
“All right, I’ll try to resist the urge,” I pledged. “But I’m telling you, this is undiluted, professional-strength Italian body hair. I could weave baskets out of it.”
And just then, a horrible, tragic thing happened.
The door swung open and in stepped Dr. Wells. The charming, bewitching, engaging, alluring Dr. Wells.
“Hello there, Miss Notaro!” he said as he swept into the room and cheerfully shook my hand.
Now, I wouldn’t say that Dr. Wells was going to put Brad Pitt on the unemployment line, not at all. But I would say that with his friendly demeanor, his impeccable graying temples, and his twinkling, almost impish eyes, I could have developed a nice little crush on him. Not in a marriage-threatening, “How could you, I trusted you” sort of way, but in the same way you develop a crush on a nubile young starlet, insist on renting all the movies in which your crush appears, and when you’re moving, your wife finds a Premiere magazine cover with the huge pumpkin-head face of the crush on it behind a bench in your office. I mean that kind of crush.
But I decided to suppress my potential and as of yet undeveloped infatuation-like feelings for Dr. Wells, because he was my doctor, and that
So, while delighted that I held my open houses during the nineties when going the extra mile in landscaping your private yard meant having used a brand-new razor and not in the current times when having a bleached anus would be listed in the “plus” column in the dating pool, I still had the chin hair to contend with, and when I saw the posters up in Dr. Wells’s office, I nearly squealed like the little piggy whose chin I had. I had been far too sensitive and embarrassed to seek out a proprietor of such services on my own, but here it was, as good as being delivered to me on a surgical steel platter. When Dr. Wells’s nurse came in to take my medical history, I jumped on the chance.
“I want laser hair removal. I know I’m here for the weird freckle, but I want laser hair removal instead. Can we do it? Can we do it today?” I asked frantically.
“Well,” the nurse said, laughing, “it doesn’t really work like that. We do the procedure on-site, but we have a technician who comes in once a month to operate the technical aspects of it, though Dr. Wells actually does the lasering. And…we currently have a long waiting list. It fills up pretty quickly. Where were you thinking of having it done—legs, bikini, breasts, anu—”
“God no!” I spat. “No. I have no desire for the physical attributes of a fetus. Besides, this property has been sold for quite a while, so I’m only interested in public areas, like my chin.”
“Well, let’s take a look,” she said as she swung a bright light over and scanned my chin. “Hmmm. You pluck, correct?”
I nodded.
“In that case, it wouldn’t be successful until the hair is grown out and visible, so I would say you could do your first session in about three months, and you can’t pluck up until then.”
“Oh, you’re kidding,” I moaned, knowing that the whole deal was off. “Forget it. I can’t do that. I’d come back in three months looking like ZZ Top. I’d rather let my roots grow out than my circus-lady beard. I knew it was too good to be true.”
“Now, wait,” the nurse advised me. “You can’t pluck because Dr. Wells needs to see the follicle he’s zapping. But you can shave. That would eliminate the length of the hair and keep the follicle intact.”
Well, that would be delightful, I thought to myself. My biggest dream come true. I get to look at the mirror every day and shave my face like a boy on the cusp of manhood. Oh, good, maybe I’ll get some pungent BO, contract athlete’s foot, and stick a poster of Pamela Anderson behind my bedroom door, too, just to round out the picture.
“All right, I’ll try to resist the urge,” I pledged. “But I’m telling you, this is undiluted, professional-strength Italian body hair. I could weave baskets out of it.”
And just then, a horrible, tragic thing happened.
The door swung open and in stepped Dr. Wells. The charming, bewitching, engaging, alluring Dr. Wells.
“Hello there, Miss Notaro!” he said as he swept into the room and cheerfully shook my hand.
Now, I wouldn’t say that Dr. Wells was going to put Brad Pitt on the unemployment line, not at all. But I would say that with his friendly demeanor, his impeccable graying temples, and his twinkling, almost impish eyes, I could have developed a nice little crush on him. Not in a marriage-threatening, “How could you, I trusted you” sort of way, but in the same way you develop a crush on a nubile young starlet, insist on renting all the movies in which your crush appears, and when you’re moving, your wife finds a Premiere magazine cover with the huge pumpkin-head face of the crush on it behind a bench in your office. I mean that kind of crush.
But I decided to suppress my potential and as of yet undeveloped infatuation-like feelings for Dr. Wells, because he was my doctor, and that
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