"This may sting a little. Or a lot."

For only the second time in my life, I visited a dermatologist. I know I'm an idiot for waiting 60+ years, but if memory serves me correct (oftentimes it doesn't) Dermatology didn't even exist when I was growing up.

They certainly didn't set up shop in the Bronx. Or in Flushing. Or even in the suburbs of Suffern, NY. When we got rashes or cuts our mothers would rub some ice on it. If we didn't have that, it was hair conditioner or shaving cream. 

Then she'd kick us out of the house and tell us to be back by 7 for dinner. It was Free Range Parenting before that term came into view.

My first Dermatologist visit lasted all of 10 minutes. I had to drive all the way down to Torrance for a UCLA-approved doctor. That's about 15 miles, as the crow flies, from the UCLA campus. Crows rarely take the 405, so it's an easy hour drive.

The doctor was distinctly analog. He told me to get undressed. Took no notice of my dramatic weight loss. Had me do a naked 360 degree turn and said, "You're good." Adding, "see you in a year."That was smoother than the skin on my hairless ass (sorry for that imagery.)

Last week's visit was digital and high tech. And not in a good way. I should have known something was wrong while sitting in the Century City, Beverly Hills-adjacent waiting room. I spotted two characters actors. And a steady stream of well-heeled 60 year old women trying desperately to look 50 years old. And one plastic-y regular who had spent a shit ton of money, to look 40. 

She knew every staffer. 

"Hey Tina."

"Hi Crystal."

"Hey Chloe."

It reminded of the sitcom Cheers and Norm's daily boisterous entrance.

This visit also lasted ten minutes. 7 of which were spent as target practice for his mini Cryo Gun, pictured above. Blasting several dry patches on my cheeks with air chilled to 170 below zero. I guess they ran out of Lidocaine or assumed I was some kind of tough guy who could withstand the pain and didn't need a topical. 

OK, I thought, let's commence the disrobing and give me the full body scan. But again I was wrong. The remaining three minutes constituted a sales pitch for the super duper Mega Scan 9000, an iron lung looking device that used high tech lasers to throughly find and map any and all possible sarcomas. Even in those hard to spot 'nooks and crannies.'

"The nurse at the front desk will schedule an appointment. Have a nice day."

Tina, who noticed me still grimacing from the Mr. Freeze Death Zapper, said the earliest she could get me in was October. Of 2026. My first visit to the Dermatologist Of The Stars, would be my last.

Looks like I'm back on the 405, for a return trip to Torrance.