Dear Dermatologist,

I couldn’t help but marvel at the skillful way you came at my skin with a giant canister of liquid nitrogen, having barely uttered five words since walking in the door and scanning my body in all its freckled, paper-covered splendor. I could barely spit out, “How much…each spot…deductible not met,” before I felt the twinge on my right temple, assuring me that you had absolutely no interest in my pocketbook. Fair enough; you’re the doctor.

Furthermore, I could not help but to notice the savvy manner in which you ran up a $300 bill (every dime of which would be deemed the patient’s responsibility given my atrocious insurance policy; here’s to you, Blue Cross Blue Shield) in less than seven minutes. Impressive, really. I can only assume the swiftness of your methods may be in a generous effort to spare the extra dollar Presby Dallas charges to park after the first 30 minutes. Astute you are, Sir!

Finally, I appreciate the swell handshake and well-wishing after slicing a spot from my back (in under one minute, no less!) and, I can only assume, taking note of my underpants and tramp stamp, neither of which could be concealed under those oh-so-crisp and gaping gowns. The pat on the head for my correctly identifying a hyfrector was the pinnacle of my appointment, if you want to know the truth. And I would be remiss if I also failed to mention the generous free samples of Aveeno lotion tucked below the pamphlets about sclerotherapy. My freakishly dry cuticles thank you!

Natalie Cottrell

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