Recently, I went to the dermatologist for my six month check. I see my dermatologist more often than any other physician due to sun damage caused by excessive time spent in swimming pools, fishing with my dad, and being a teenage beach bum. I’d barely walked into the exam room when the nurse asked if I would be interested in Botox.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” I asked.

“Oh! No, no, no. I just happen to have some left over that I need to use up. It’s about to expire.”

Expire?

“Huh. Where do you think I would need it?”

“Between your eyebrows. It erases the lines there.” She held out a hand mirror.

“Which lines?” I asked, waggling my eyebrows.

“Well you have to scrunch your eyebrows together to see them,” she said.

I scrunched my face to make my angry eyebrow look.

“There! Those lines!” She stabbed her finger between my eyes.

I flinched back, “Well, there aren’t really lines if I don’t scrunch.”

“And with Botox, there wouldn’t be any there when you do scrunch,” she chirped.

“So then, how will people know when I’m angry?”

She paused for a perplexed moment, then snatched the mirror out of my hand, “I don’t think Botox is your thing.”

“I don’t think expired Botox is my thing,” I murmured, angry eyebrows on full display.