GAHHH! … Sorry, what I meant to say is hello and welcome. You’ll have to excuse me; I’m not used to faces that are quite so… dehydrated.

I see that the pockets of your denim pants are full of free samples, which means you’re probably going to ask if I take insurance. Might I suggest you see a student esthetician at the cosmetology school in the basement of Walgreens instead? Their clients hardly ever go blind.

No need? So, in order to pay me, you’ve taken out a loan the size of a down payment on a seaside mansion? C’est bon.

Now, let’s take a look at your face with the most horrifying magnification tool I have.

Furrow your brow. Unfurrow it. Smile. Frown. Jump up and down. Spin around. Sit. And don’t ever forget that you’re mine now. I own you.

All righty, I see acne and wrinkles. I guess it’s wrong what they say—women can have it all.

Regarding your eyes, if there were a crow with feet so enormous that all the other crows shunned it, causing this crow to die alone in its little crow apartment, those would be your crow’s feet.

I noticed that you pick at your skin. It’s no big deal, but you should know that by doing so, you are ruining your life and the lives of those you love most in this world.

Of course, you do have sun damage, and the best way to prevent that is by living underground in a colony of mole people who fear the sky and use human teeth to barter. If that doesn’t sound doable, wear a hat.

You also have a small, persistent mustache. I can’t do anything about it—I just think it’s funny.

Now, the official medical diagnosis of your skin is “disgusting.” But worry not, I can help.

I can do a chemical peel so aggressive that your friends will weep at the sight of you and curse an unforgiving God.

I can shoot you with lasers that will destroy and then repair the top layer of your skin so thoroughly that the TSA will require you to get a new passport and begin life anew as a European socialite named Francoise d’Horchata.

If we want to fade some of that post-pimple discoloration, I’ll have to stab your face with a million needles. I know that sounds counterproductive, but hear me out: it’s also expensive.

It’s essential that all of my clients get twenty-one hours of sleep a day. You have a child? How awful. While there is no cure for dark circles, I do sell an eye cream made from the salivary glands of wealthy dogs.

Now, tell me, how old are you? No, really. Don’t kid me. You’re only thirty? Because by my calculations, which involve counting the fine lines around your mouth and multiplying them by the years I spent at Cornell, that figure should be closer to ninety-five.

All in all, to restore a more youthful and radiant appearance, I would suggest a mouth graft, scalp shift, filler in your eyes, cheekbone thickening, lip lengthener, eyebrow removal, ear peel, pore spackling, full neck ironing, a non-invasive chin transplant, and, frankly, a haircut that doesn’t look like it was done by a baby with a knife.

On your way out, please speak with Linda at the front desk. And by the way, it’s not in your head: Linda does hate you. Don’t forget sunscreen!