The Mike Haddad Show: This is relevant to my interests.

This morning I took a trip to the friendly, neighbourhood cosmetic surgeon in Oakville. No, I was not there for anything serious. What I did get was a huge dose of stereotypes.

It ran the full gamut of Oakville ridiculousness. A Latina woman getting frustrated she had to wait so long despite free cappuccino and biscotti. A baby boomer aged Russian woman and her 30 something daughter. And of course we had to top of the Oakville social pyramid: a mother and late teenage daughter, matching attempts to make their black hair platinum blonde, fake tanned to a lovely orange colour, rocking obnoxious juicy belts and standard LV print bags and purses.

Of course, excluding all the damage they've done to their skin and hair the mother could use some serious cosmetic work. She looks like she either hasn't tried at all or tried way too hard - as if trying more is going to help. She talks about procedures like she's an info sheet. Clearly she's been here a lot. Of course I doubt she understands the actual science behind any of this, but hey, who am I to judge (any more than I already have)? [For the record, she's actually a lovely woman. I enjoyed the brief conversation I had with her as we waited. Eavesdropping when the "nurse" came over let me know they're both looking at the same procedure. Something about feet maybe?]

Now, this poor woman's daughter looks like she's seriously hating her life. I don't see any reason for her to be here. While she does have her mother's tanned skin and platinum-over-black hair she's actually pretty good looking. She hasn't had the same damage done to her skin. She has the same brilliant eyes her mother has. I can't imagine why she's so uncomfortable. [Actually maybe I can. I don't feel bad about judging them and wondering why they were here - I know the mother ripped me apart physically as I walked away. And I would expect nothing less.]

After 45 minutes of waiting in a common waiting room, I'm shuffled into exam room VII. I was originally going to get frustrated with the additional waiting, but I managed to entertain myself with spacing posts (this girl got ripped apart in the comments) and wondering how noticeable the smell of smoke is on my clothes. I don't even smoke, but riding around in my brother's car means the smell transfers to me. I don't understand the science behind that, but I doubt I would ever be bothered enough to really try.

The rest of it went like this: 2 minutes with the doctor in exam room VII, then 5 minutes in consult II before another bill and a follow up appointment.