I’ve always maintained that if you want to get rich you should study hard, become a dermatologist, and set up shop in Naples, Florida, where the sun shines brightly year-round on a sea of older folks with money and skin to burn.
As a blue-eyed person who never wears sun screen — I know I should, I always promise I will, but never do — I see mine every six months for a full body scan.
I had my regular appointment this morning. Everything checked out fine but I did have had six of those brown thingies frozen off of various body parts.
The elevator I was riding to the lobby from the third floor stopped at the second floor, and a well-dressed elderly gent wearing a straw fedora and oversized sunglasses stepped on. His skin, I noticed, was unnaturally smooth, almost translucent. Unusual for a man and a sure giveaway on a woman that she has had lots of work done on her face.
“That Dr. ____” saved my life," he said, indicating the name of one of the doctors who works on the second floor.
Wow,” I replied. “You must have had something terrible.”
“Oh no, I’ve never had any problems.” he said. "But whenever I find a new spot, I call and she takes me in the same day.”
“That’s great service,” I said.
“Yes. I’ve been here 28 times in the last six months.”
The door opened in the lobby and and we walked to the parking lot together. Our cars were next to each other. His was a Maserati convertible.
He got in, waved goodbye, and drove out ahead of me.
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