Next to me, a woman in a crisp power suit taps her phone—is she 35?
I take a seat in Alexiades’s orchid-dotted office (no self-respecting cosmetic dermatologist, I have learned, has an orchid-free office, or furnishings that are anything but clinically white). Next to me, a woman in a crisp power suit taps her phone—is she 35? 45? My age? It’s an odd feeling to have no idea whatsoever. Despite the now-familiar environs of a high-end dermatology office, I am still jittery and fight the urge to bolt from the waiting room.