The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death by Laurie Notaro Page A

would be inappropriate, plus I would not be surprised at all if he had simply bands of hirsute women clamoring after him and his warm, sparkly white smile and flawless skin. And perfectly graying temples.
    Perfectly.
    In addition, I knew that should I become even the slightest bit enamored of Dr. Wells, I would do something stupid and clumsy in front of him, thus changing his opinion of me forever and never allowing him to see the gentle, quiet, sad beauty that existed within me, encased in a tomb of prickly black splinters of chin hair that I had promised not to pluck.
    So I made my appointment for the laser removal at the front desk after I paid for the checkup for the weird freckle, which turned out to be nothing but a weird freckle, and I waited.
    When I saw the inklings that the first new chinny chin chin hair had arrived, I have to admit, I felt the flush of excitement. The time was almost at hand. The plan was falling into place. So I waited three months, kept my razor in the shower hidden under a wash puff lest my husband see it, since I’m pretty damn near positive Kate Winslet doesn’t lather up and slide a blade across her face of questionable gender every day like a drag queen. By the time the three months was up and dots of tiny black sprouts had arrived on my chin en force, I entered the shower every morning looking like a Sharpie had attacked me during the night. My husband nicely refrained from pointing out that it was in my best interest as a werewolf to avoid full moons and crucifixes.
    Then, just as Dr. Wells’s business card that was held by a magnet to my refrigerator door told me, the day arrived for my laser hair-removal beautification to begin. I showed up on time, and the nurse took me back into a room that had a large stainless steel machine in it next to what looked like a dentist’s chair.
    Then the door opened and there he was, the curiously amazing Dr. Wells, who took one look at me with those magic man eyes and said, “Miss Notaro, how are you doing today?”
    I was already at a disadvantage, aware that when I’m in a reclining position looking up, my neck fat has a tendency to arrange itself in a singular, arching tube, much like the neck of a walrus or sea lion. Knowing I didn’t look my best, despite my meticulous application of newly purchased eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick, I attempted to deliver a demure smile to Dr. Wells, successfully refraining from being smitten at the same time.
    “Hmmmm, let’s take a look,” he said as he bent down and examined the area in question. “Oh, I’ll have no problem seeing those! I can see you’ve let them grow out for a while, so thank you!”
    If “a while” means less than the time between sunrise and sunset, then so be it, I thought to myself as I nodded. Apparently, I sprout hair faster than John Travolta after a long weekend trip to the “spa.”
    “Now I’m going to place these on your eyes to protect them from the laser, and I’m going to apply some conducting gel over the area,” he informed me, putting little yellow suntan-booth goggles on my face. “When I begin the procedure, it will feel like little pins, like acupuncture. Little pinches. After the laser pulses, you’ll feel a cooling sensation in the same spot. Are you ready?”
    Then someone spackled some very chilly gel basically everywhere from my eyes down, and I braced myself for the first pinch, because when medical professionals tell you that something is going to “pinch,” what they really mean is “This is going to feel like I made a shiv out of a rusty can and am going to ram it mercilessly into your kidney. So just relax.”
    I heard the whirr of the machine and braced myself for the pain of what I imagined would be like having a jumper cable touch my jaw, but surprisingly, it was relatively benign. It felt like a little, tiny jab with a pin, and I was amazed at how little it actually did hurt; right after the jab, I felt a very cold sensation. This