Easy on the Eyes by Jane Porter Page A

is it?”
    “No, but the money people don’t care.”
    And just like that we run out of things to say. Again. Always. I struggle to come up with a new topic and grab at the first
     thing that comes to mind. “So how’s Kiki?”
    “Why do you ask?” His tone is less friendly now.
    I try to make a joke of it. “Everybody keeps teasing me that you’re on location with Kiki Woods.”
    “And what does everybody say?”
    He’s not laughing. He’s angry. I swallow hard.
    “What are they saying, Tiana?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Come on, don’t be coy now.”
    “They say she’s a man stealer,” I answer defiantly.
    “Then they have it wrong. Kiki doesn’t steal men. I don’t know why you’d repeat gossip.”
    I close my eyes, press my fingers to my brow. “I’m sorry.”
    He’s not mollified. “I don’t know why you’d believe garbage like that.”
    “I was trying to make conversation. I’m sorry.”
    We say good-bye and hang up, and I sit for a moment feeling profoundly empty.
    This is not the relationship I want. This isn’t going anywhere good. I should just end it with Trevor. Break it off. Be done
     with it.
    But if I break things off, then I’m completely single again, and I don’t like being completely single. Being single means
     you have to start dating all over again and looking for someone new and being open and vulnerable. I’m not good being vulnerable.
     Not good opening up and sharing.
    Don’t think about it, I tell myself, reaching for the newspaper again. Don’t think about Trevor or dating or men.
    It’s while reading the
New York Times
“Style” section that I spot an article on the rise in plastic surgery in the United States and fold back the newspaper to
     read the article in its entirety.
    The article doesn’t say anything I don’t already know. A year ago, I attended the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery’s
     annual, just after Kanye West’s mom’s death. I’d gone to do research for a story on our American culture’s obsession with
     self-improvement.
    The products repulsed me— chin implants, breast implants, lipo needles, sponges, drains, forceps, dissectors, retractors—
     but I was fascinated by the professional education offered. Workshops covered the newest medical tips and techniques, including
     how to up sell your “client” to generate more income.
    It was a lightbulb moment for me, the realization that medicine had moved from the necessary to the elective and that doctors
     must not just compete but actively solicit for business.
    A great plastic surgeon isn’t necessarily a gifted surgeon, but a brilliant businessman.
    One of the workshops I sat in on was titled “The Malpractice-Free Practice,” run by a former physician who founded an insurance
     company for physicians. Dr. Krupp urged every physician to brush up his or her bedside manner. “Communicate,” he lectured,
     “become a good listener. Make sure you understand what it is your client wants. Don’t ever assume, and don’t— whatever you
     do— don’t play God.”
    Setting aside the paper, I realize I can’t fight it anymore, can’t relax. I need to be busy, get researching. I carry my laptop
     downstairs to my terrace with the wrought iron table and chairs. Thanks to wireless technology, I’m able to sit in the warmth
     of the sun and research everything I can on women, beauty, image, success, and self-esteem.
    There’s a lot to be found.
    I’m still reading when the clock on my mantel strikes noon, and I suddenly feel like Cinderella about to miss her own ball
     as I rush into the bedroom and look for the dress Shannon suggested I wear to the Pixar film premiere. It’s a chocolate shirt
     dress with a wide belt cinched at the waist. She accessorized it for me, too, so I throw on the wooden bangles and the gold
     hoops and do a quick makeup and comb through before heading out the door, where Polish John, my other driver, waits.
    While John drives, I wonder if more