Where the money's at

So, I had to see a plastic surgeon recently for the thing on my head. Apparently, the thing on my head (heretofore known as TTOMH - eh, we'll call him TOM) has decided to stick around and my primary care physician just isn't cool enough to get it out, so I had to see A Professional.

When I've thought of plastic surgery in the past, I've thought face lifts, tummy tucks and boob jobs. So, when my doctor told me I'd have to see a plastic surgeon, I thought of all the things this guy could fix for me while I was in there. You know, since he's going to work on my head anyway, can't he just get rid of those lines around my mouth and the turkey neck thing I got going on? How hard could it be?

I met with the plastic surgeon. Man, his office is NICE. Very modern with a spa feel to it. Deep purple walls, red velvet couches, dimmed lights. I even think they had scented candles burning (isn't that a fire hazard?). I could just picture his other clients drinking mimosas while receiving complimentary Botox injections in the waiting area.

I didn't have to wait long. I was taken into an examination room by the nurse practitioner. He was all fancy, too. Dressed for a night of clubbing. Even the examination room was nice. It had a leather recliner for an exam table. My metrosexual nurse used a cool tablet thing to document my medical history rather than utilizing a boring old pen and paper chart.

From this day forward, I'll consider all my other doctors prehistoric and inferior.

The nurse took a picture of my... TOM. And, of course, he didn't use any old camera, certainly not a Polaroid. He had a handy dandy Nikon (or Canon) camera, the kind professional photographers use (or the kind I picture them using - I have no idea what professionals use).

Aaanyway, me? Impressed. And then I was left alone to read the many advertisements for things that could make me look better. I pictured the doctor coming in, taking one look at me, and listing all the things about me he could make better. There was this episode of Sex and the City? Where Samantha went to a plastic surgeon? And he took a black Sharpie and marked up her entire body, pointing out all her flaws that he could fix?

Okay, never mind.  I don't need that.

The doctor came in. Finally, my head would be healed. Tall, dark and friendly, he was dressed smartly in a maroon button down shirt, black pants and white lab coat. Were these guys going clubbing at 9:00 am? Or just coming home from clubbing? Man, I wanted to be his friend. Until, he, of course, told me, after examination, that he wasn't taking TOM out right away. Apparently, TOM was not small enough and he was considerate enough to have me wait (another month or two) until TOM was small enough to remove with minimal scarring.

Gee, thanks, Doc.

Okay, sure, I appreciate minimal scarring, but... it's on my head. Covered by hair. Lots of hair. The only time anyone would ever see it is if I went bald. And I don't plan to make that fashion statement. Ever.

Whatever. Fine, I'll wait. But the next time I come in, I want the complimentary Botox injection. Or at least the mimosa.