Lasering part 2: Preproduction

This is, barring my Geo Metro, the least masculine thing I have ever spent money on.  There are feminine hygiene products more friendly to my gender than this office.  Whichever plant gives off this pinkish-tan paint had a bad year.  Fortunately, I was accosted in the parking lot by a friendly Jamacian looking to buy drugs.  That may be my last shot of testosterone for a while.

The kindly laser operator was covering at the front desk when I walked.  She took me into the side room.  Armpits have since been numbed, and are covered in a pleasing combination of goo and plastic wrap.  I feel like a happy slip 'n' slide.  Maybe that's what I'll be next Halloween.

Back into the waiting room for the next forty minutes to baste.  The wicker lounge chairs are pleasingly comfortable, and smell slightly of lavender.  Things are nicely quiet: There is no suicide-inducing world jazz today.  The water cooler is giving off a soft buzz loud enough to mask small yelps of pain.  

The woman who arrived after me is not getting numbed at all.  Not to generalize too much, but I know men that can break their own arm, spin it around, and set it backwards without flinching.  But pluck an eyebrow, and they're on the floor crying.  My sister used an epi-lady for years.  I got it stuck on my head just once, and couldn't look at it without my eyes welling up.  There is just something about beauty treatments that getting punched on the playground just doesn't prepare you for.

Now I'm getting nervous.  This nirvana of peace and tranquility still ends in the angry laser killing parts of my body.