The twenty-something receptionist sat behind the shiny, art-deco desk barely blinking as she rang me up and said, “$357.61.” She looked at me expectantly, not unkindly. She phrased it like a question, 357.61?

Can that be right? I’m not processing this well because I’m distracted by her perfectly manicured face; how does she keep her pores so tiny? I suppose this happens to her all the time: she is so beautiful that people lose their train of thought just looking at her. I will probably never know what that is like.

Wait just a minute, there is no way this visit is honestly adding up to the equivalent of a new Coach bag. I suppose there’s no chance it’s a mistake. I glance down at the smart-looking bag of product and I can practically feel my eyebrows growing back. Sigh.

Miss perfect pores is looking at me expectantly but cheerfully. Maybe shock and stalling at the register happens a lot, too.