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By Lauran Strait "This is poison," Sandy whispered after the second injection, her forehead as wet as her pits, "isn't it?" The doctor paused. "No, no. It's neuro-toxin, not poison." "What's the difference?" Sandy edged forward, biting her bottom lip. "A poison's something dangerous. A manmade chemical, perhaps." Doctor Kellerman spoke softly, again moving the needle toward Sandy's eye. "But a toxin's made by an organism-- a plant or bug. It's naturally occurring. Nothing to worry about. You'll look great after the procedure, like you've had a face lift." Was he putting her on? Using poison on what essentially was a self-esteem problem--how pathetic was that? She probably should schedule an extra session with the shrink this week. Maybe she could work it in after her manicure on Wednesday. Sandy studied her red, acrylic-tipped nails, then frowned. The skin around her left eye seemed sluggish. Crap. Beginnings of blindness? Well, what did she expect after two shots of poison? "You okay? Ready for me to finish?" "Go ahead," Sandy said. What the hell. Kellerman pushed the needle again into a semi-circle of magic-marker spots around her left eye. Sandy flinched. "Feel that pop? Nothing to worry about, just the needle going in." "That wasn't so bad, was it? Left eye's done and you already look ten years younger." Ten years? Woo hoo! Sandy's heart thumped extra fast. Goodbye crow's feet! Kellerman moved to Sandy's right eye, injecting each semi-circle. Four pops later, he played connect-the-dots above her eyebrows and nose bridge. "You look marvelous," he winked. "No one'll ever guess your real age now." Farewell frowny lines. Wrinkles, forty-four years in the making, gone in ten minutes. If she could manage it, she'd be at the hairstylist's before noon for one of those short, sexy cuts. Nothing left hanging to hide her face. And especially NO BANGS! Poison, schmoison. Sandy admired her reflection. "Jesus wept. Is this me?" "In the flesh. Speaking of which, take off your shirt." "Whaaat?" Her tongue was suddenly as dry as a melba-toast. "Isn't the boob job in two weeks?" "Yes. But while you're here, why not go for perfection? Let's stop your underarms from sweating. No more annoying wet spots on your clothes." Kellerman jabbed his index fingers at the saturated half-moons under her arms, then sneered. "You can do that?" "Seen the Oscars?" "Ever wonder why celebs don't sweat?" Kellerman paused half-a-heartbeat. "Botox injections under their arms." Ah, another mystery revealed. "I must be crazy..." Sandy said, unbuttoning her blouse. She was going to be late for that haircut. But no sweat. Literally. Sandy's shirt fell from her shoulders. Toxin, schmoxin. If you would like to link to this story, please use this link. | ||
