Therapist Barbie

Paige

I blinked then rubbed my eyes like that would change what I was seeing. All the therapists I’d imagined were graying old men, rubbing their beards and trying to stare down my shirt in leather-shrouded offices. Instead, Dr. McMillan—Dr. Lauren McMillan—stood in front of a rounded teal chair with one of the longest manes of flowing blonde hair I’d ever seen in my life. She wore a deep green blazer over a cream button-down, and pants that matched her jacket, but that seemed more like a concession to her position than something that actually suited her. She pulled out a steno pad and a handful of different colored pens then smiled at me like some kind of sorority girl.

“Paige, right?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah.” I nodded my head. “How do we…do this?”

“You can sit wherever you’d like.” She swept her arm over an assortment of matching teal furniture, other chairs and a couch, all of which looked weird against the utilitarian gray of her walls and carpet. “If it’s easier for someone else to