Sometimes I take mental vacations when a gynecologist pokes and prods to the point of pain. I often go to Hawaii. If bears in coconut bras greet me there, all the better.
The doctor, a gynecologist, blustered through the door of the exam room.
His silver streaked hair exploded in different directions like he hadn’t combed it in months. I’m sure a few birds nested in it. He had a wild-eyed look about him like a hunted animal seeking refuge. Perhaps he’d delivered several babies during the night and hadn’t yet had a chance to relax and tee off at the country club. He didn’t seem too interested in knowing me. He didn’t offer a smile or a handshake, just an abrupt “I’m Dr. Badhair.” Of course his name isn’t really Badhair but I’m not using his real name to protect me.