Last night, I had a dream that I was accompanying a guy from my high school to a salon. Maybe he was going to be in a movie or something because it was very involved. While I was there, I decided to get my eyebrows done. (It's been a year since the last time with the pandemic and all.) Emmy-winning makeup artist, Kirsten Sage Coleman waxed my eyebrows. (I don't know her, I just follow her on IG in my waking hours.) In her defense, she was a bit distracted because so much going on, but she came back and told me to go to this medical center around the corner. Apparently, she had taken too much skin off my right eyebrow and I needed to get a skin graft. (That's not what she called it, and when I asked her if she meant a skin graft, she just looked at me sadly.)
So I left my laconic high school friend in the salon and walked to the building around the corner. It was a fancy skyscraper, and I had to take the elevator to the ninth floor. At first, I struggled. There was something weird with the buttons. We stopped on a floor, and a woman stepped in before stepping out again. She wanted to go to the 2 1/2 floor, but the elevator was going up. I started to tell her I wasn't sure, maybe we weren't going up, but the doors closed. The elevator started to go down but then changed its mind and took me the whole way up. On the ninth floor, the elevator car came up out of the floor and turned into a bench. When it did this, it tilted me into a heap on the floor.
The staff behind the desk looked mildly amused. I showed them the situation; when I took off the bandage, chunks of skin and fat fell off my face. They conferred. I asked about stitches, they said no -- too ragged for stitches. There was a series of heavy wooden doors behind them, and I was expecting to be led into one of those. I had an idea that they would probably take the skin graft from my butt.
The waiting room was bustling and no one was wearing masks. That's all I remember.
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