The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty

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I’m waiting for my new patient to arrive, not suspecting that within the next hour she’ll reveal herself to be the most interesting patient I’ve ever had.

Her name is Barb Colby. When we spoke on the phone, she claimed to be twenty-eight years old, but the woman who waddles into my office looks at least forty. She’s quite overweight and tall, with glasses and frizzy gray hair. As I gaze at her face more closely, however, I notice that her skin isn’t wrinkled. Perhaps she was telling the truth about her age.

She takes a seat.

“What brings you here?” I ask.

“It’s my mother’s dying wish that I see a therapist.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Your mother is dying?” I make a note of this in my pad.

“No. She’s in great health, thankfully. But it’s an early request. When she tried asking for it as her birthday present, I ignored it.”

I cross out my note. “Why does your mother want you to see a therapist?”

“Because she doesn’t like the way I look.”

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