I'm Here for the 2:00 Botox

Dermatologists like 'em wrinkly.

I saw a dermatologist last week for a, um, "thing," and as I sat on the examination table explaining my symptoms to him, I couldn't help but notice a vague sense of disappointment. Never having received this reaction from a doctor who wasn't staring at my penis, I wasn't sure what to make of it until I saw another patient -- a squat, fifty-something woman dabbing her cheeks with cotton swabs and promising to come back next week -- walk by the examination room. That's when I realized that I was an LA dermatologist's worst nightmare: a need-based patient.

Unlike the haus frau stopping for a touch-up between the eyes (Why not between the toes, like other junkies?), I wouldn't be a recurring source of income. I had no need for brow paralysis, and the only crow's feet I ever had came from a Korean take-out.

As I spoke, the doctor sighed and had a faraway look in his eyes -- no doubt wondering if he should add nipples to the figurehead on his yacht. He barely glanced at my "lump" before scrawling down a $15 prescription and shoving me out the door. He claimed he was giving me antibiotics, but I could swear that the illegible scribble on the little square paper read "anti-poverty pills".

I should've suspected as much when I saw the 40-inch plasma TV in the waiting room running soft-focus infomercials for Botox and a skin tightening procedure that seemed to involve electric cattle prods. "Will I be able to make facial expressions?" a woman on screen asked with the subtle intimacy of a douche commercial. It was clear that this 30-year-old actress had never needed Botox a day in her life, but as I learned that day, it's not about needing it; you have to want it.