I SIT stripped to the waist on an operating table. The dermatologist walks in.

"Hi, Doc."

He peers at my face over his bifocals. "You're looking okay. When did you get back into town? Lie down on your stomach."

"I've been back a week."

"Yeah? What're you doing?" He fishes one of his scalpels out of a solution of alcohol.

"Trying to find a job. It's fight, too."

"Hah." His fingers begin roaming over my back.

"You're not kidding. It's gonna be a real tight summer. Oh, here's a nice one. Uh!" He grunts. "Doesn't want to give in. Uh! That got it."

"Back's not so good, huh?" I ask from behind gnashing teeth.

"Nope. 'Course, there's another thing you got going against you. Lot of people are suspicious--Uh!--of you kids with long hair and bell bottoms."

"Oh, come on. Besides, I just--ouch!--got a hair-cut."

"Yeah, but it's still not short. Listen! Most employers-Uh!--know about that work-in SDS is planning. Uh! They're not too liberal. Uh! They don't trust you kids. Uh!. So they don't want to hire you. Uh! There. Sit up."

I open my eyes. He shoots me a quizzical glance over his bifocals.

"So, an usual, you kids are just making it hard on yourselves. Right?"

I can only nod agreement.