Plastic surgery

Monique High's picture

Getting Work Done in Beverly Hills

 A year ago I ran into Karla, a good friend’s twin sister at the hair salon.  “You look fantastic!” I said to her.  “Is it the new haircut?”

      “Well,” she admitted, “I’ve had some work done.”

      I was nonplussed.  What did getting her patio fixed or her roof repaired have to do with how radiant and youthful-looking she suddenly looked?  “No, silly,” another friend chided.  “Getting work done means having your face worked on.  Not your house.  They used to call it a facelift.”

      I’m European.  When I was a girl, we called getting our period “being unwell.” “Getting work done,” is the new euphemism in my present stomping ground of Beverly Hills, California.  But I’ve caught on.  Recently, I’ve been ill and haven’t been out much.  When I told my husband that I’d become a virtual recluse, he was extremely sympathetic.  “It’s because of your bad hip,” he said.  “You haven’t been able to drive anywhere.” In Los Angeles, you can’t really get about without a car.

      I disabused him.  “That’s only half the reason.  Because of my hip, I haven’t been able to drive to see Dr. T.  And so I can’t face any of my friends.” He scrunched his brow to make a moue.  He’s a guy and doesn’t get Dr. T. at all.

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