The music will not stop

Thanks to the numbing cream in my armpits, my underarms feel like my teeth at the dentist's.  Which is to say, they don't feel much, but somehow they don't feel it a whole lot.  The radio in my underarms got really quiet, but somebody turned up the static.  And for some strange reason, it is making my mouth taste like t-shirts.  

The Tibetan music patiently waits.

The very nice woman who is going to kill spots of my underarm came by with a concern about shingles.  Specifically, because I had shingles before, that the laser treatment might evoke an "outbreak." She seemed to be getting shingles, which are caused by the chicken pox virus, confused with herpes.  I can see why one would be careful, but they're really not related.  Somehow I don't feel comfortable giving medical lectures to my doctors*.

*(Actually a doctor! I was expecting some sort of BS "Beauty Technician" title, but she's a bonafied MD)

The 90% off Groupon has turned this office into grand central station for middle class women with more hair than money.  Apparently, men want to avoid hair loss, and women want to guide it to their upper lips and underarms.  Still no signs of another man.  Is this what Doctor Livingston felt, trudging through the wilds of Africa, sitting on white-toweled wicker recliners?

The music has switched to the kind of softly romantic Spanish guitar one would hear during the "painful loss remembered" scenes in 80's movies.  The waiting continues.