Tuesday, July 29, 2014

ah bin cut!

Well, burned.  And it is rather the same thing, isn't it?

For the past seven years, I have been growing a dark spot on the bridge of my nose.  I looked like a Brahmin suffering caste slippage.

It has never bothered me.  My appearance ranks on my list of concerns somewhere between having an extra buggy whip on hand and being eaten by piranha in my bathtub.  Anyone who has seen the way I dress will testify to that.

But the spot recently started to darken -- taking on the color of an over-roasted white truffle.  That may be why I started receiving remarks every other week or so about its appearance.

I needed to schedule an appointment with my dentist to have my teeth cleaned.  Her husband is a dermatologist with an office just two doors down from hers.  So, Monday morning I saw each of them.

I detest having my teeth cleaned.  There is something about that metal hook scraping across enamel that makes me long for fingernails on a chalkboard. 

But it is all for a good cause -- keeping my teeth in my head instead of in a glass on the nightstand.  And for $450 (Mx) [about $35 (US)], I certainly cannot complain.  It is torture well served.

With shining teeth, I walked a few feet to the dermatologist's office.  He looked at my "third eye," and sighed in the way doctors do when they either have something terrible to tell you -- or have nothing much at all to say.  In this case, it was the latter.

"Let's burn it off," he said in the same tone I would use to describe my car as green.  I thought that meant another appointment.

Nope.  I expected to hear, "How about next Tuesday at 2?"  Instead, it was: "Jump up on the table and lie down." 

More chatter to distract me as he hovered over me with his hypodermic filled with numb-juice.  A bit of burning.  A bit of waiting.

"Close your eyes.  Keep them closed."

At first I thought he wanted to protect my eyes.  But when the distinct smell of grilled meat filled the air, I knew the reason for the caution.  He didn't want me to flinch watching his burning tool headed toward my nose.

I now have a very good idea of how I would smell if I were ever a martyr for the faith condemned to the flames of the inquisition.  Something like an Argentine loin strip.

The whole thing took about ten minutes.  And I walked away with a somewhat-redder bridge and $1000 (MX) [$77 (US)] lighter.

With a bit of cream in the morning and the evening, I should heal up quite nicely.

I will now need a better method to show my caste.  Shorts, sandals, and a polo shirt sound just about right.


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