Finding my new face

If I was the ruler of the universe, and lord knows I should be, I would make some things into a permanent, irrevocable law. These are my laws in order of importance:
Once you have found an esthetician (Facial girl for those dudes) that knows, understands, and makes your skin glow, she can NEVER quit. She has to do your make-up for your funeral.
Other people who can NEVER quit once they’ve been pondered over, checked out and reviewed are my maids, my hairdresser, my mechanic and the girl who makes cupcakes.
Dogs can never die.
Children switch parents when they become teenagers. They will listen to the new set of parents for at least a year before those parents become immense idiots too.
Good books appear every Sunday and you never have to waste a minute on bad fiction.
Restaurants only can charge you what you think the meal and the service was worth.
Everyone has a “Replicator” so you can have any material possession you want, you just have to dispose of it by recycling or it is yours forever.
Wine is free.

This train of thought came to me, as I was strapped to a bed waiting for my sixth attempt at finding a new esthetician. Mine recently retired (even through my hailstorm of begging, pleading, and crying) and now my face is falling to pieces and all I have met is whopping weirdoes.
Try number # 1 landed me with a geographically desirable lady (her office was behind mine), but she didn’t test her wax and gave my upper lip third degree burns.

Then I went to the expensive one, who shares an office with a doctor. In making my appointment, they insisted that I give them my credit card number, so they can charge me if I didn’t show up to the scheduled appointment. I don’t share my credit cards with my husband, so there was NO way bimbo #2 was getting it.

Attempts, 3, 4, and 5 kind of went like; I made an appointment, walked in the door, spent 5 minutes talking about them and the products they use and then me running screaming out of the strip malls. These girls were beyond intellectually challenged.

Tonight was attempt 6. She seemed okay until she spilled an enormous glob of steaming hot wax onto my chest thus searing my necklace to my throat for at least 3 months. Then she told me how the doctor had told her she needed glasses, but she didn’t really feel she needed them for work. Really? As you are pouring hot wax on my skin, then ripping it off, you don’t need to see clearly? I ran screaming home and put a nipple on a bottle of wine.

I cannot give up. My face needs a supportive individual to keep it spree and dare I say pretty. The search goes on.

P.S. Do not suggest your “great gal”; all six of mine were recommendations. I will find her; she is out there, like the great white buffalo.