Women will never cease to amaze me.
I’m sitting at The Atlantic Grill waiting for the late, great Camille, when a lady comes over to covertly ask me…who did my nose.
A tad slow on the take, it didn’t register right away.
She came closer the way you might to tell a guy his zipper was down.
“Your doctor…who was it that fixed your nose. It wasn’t Berman was it?”
“I wouldn’t let Berman fix my sink let alone something I breathe out of…no one in their right mind goes to him if they’re smart.”
‘Wait a minute…so Berman does bad noses?” I said, realizing this woman was saying she didn’t like mine.
“He’s a boob man,” said Camille. “Would you go to a tire dealer to buy china?”
I wasn’t even drinking at this point yet this whole conversation had me spinning. My nose is nothing to write home about, but like Nora Ephron wrote in her novel Heartburn, it goes with my face.
“Why did you ask me about my nose?” I said, not concealing my edge.
“It’s nice, but still on the big side so I’m wondering who made the error, so I wouldn’t go to him. You see I’m shopping for rhinoplasty.”
I now had visions of rhinos in robes with their snouts bandaged.
“For your information madam…
“Gem, call me Gem.”
“GEM…I’VE NEVER HAD A NOSE JOB.”
“Oh, now I understand.”
“Understand what exactly?”
“That you need one?” piped in Camille, “at least Gem here thinks so. What kind of a name is Gem anyway?”
“It’s short for Gemala.”
“Really…you know sweetie, if I were you, rather than my nose, I’d fix my name….
waiter…table for two.”
You gotta love Camille.
The doctor’s name was changed. Last thing I need is a lawsuit.