For bragging about my wonderful cheap hairstylist

today I get the eye doctor who dilates my eyes and then leaves me to stew in a tiny waiting room with circa 1953 interior design for one entire hour. That's one entire hour during which my blurry vision did not allow me to read the wonderfully entertaining book I brought with me, but did not stop me from watching the hands of the clock, which was weirdly somehow part of the wood panelling on the walls, slowly click along. But to add to the disorientation, the clock was running just fine, but was apparently set to London time. Not even any muzak piped in. Just me, freaky clock, and 25 other similarly off-kilter people waiting in silence, broken only by the sound of a car alarm, during which time we wriggled uncomfortably wondering if our car was the offending party, but none of us brave enough to expose our delicate pupils to the setting sun over the parking lot long enough to settle the issue once and for all.