I started my day in the dentist's chair. It used to be a father-son practice, but the father -- the one I always saw -- died last year. Now it's just the son. He told me I have a small spot inside a molar groove that he wants to fill. "Okay," I said, "but before we talk about scheduling I need to make sure you know I have that redhead gene that makes me hard to numb. One of the things I'll always appreciate about your dad is that he was so careful to make sure I was numb."
"Absolutely," said the son. "I trained with the best." [meaning his dad, not a fancypants dental school -- isn't that sweet?]
When the hygienist walked me to the front desk, she said, "We'll need to schedule a little extra time because--"
The receptionist interrupted, pointing at her own red hair: "Because she's a redhead! Got it!"
She went on, "Doctor was skeptical when I first told him I was hard to numb, and then he tried to do it! He couldn't believe how many shots he had to give me!"
'Oh my GOSH," I said, "don't you hate it when people say, 'You should be numb by now!' and you're like, 'STOP SHOULDING ME!'?"
"I KNOW RIGHT?!?!"
I have found it fairly traumatic for dentists and physicians to use sharp implements on my body when I could still feel what they were doing. And their surprise at my discomfort -- as if perhaps I were hallucinating the sensation -- did not improve the situation. So! If ever I need to find a new dentist, I'll know that I have to seek out one with a redheaded receptionist.
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