The team there doesn’t rush you. At all. My optician, a lovely woman who spoke in calm tones like a yoga instructor, asked me about my screen time without any judgment. I confessed to eight hours of doom-scrolling daily, and she didn’t even flinch. She just smiled and said, “Let’s see what we can do.”
After the usual puff of air and that dreaded “which is better, one or two?” test, she slid a trial lens frame onto my face. The world snapped into crisp, terrifying focus. I could see the dust on the air conditioning vent. Gross, but amazing. I actually gasped, which made her laugh. If you’ve never had that clarity moment, you’re missing out on a very weird kind of euphoria.
And hey, the frames selection is dangerously good. You go in for a basic check-up, and 45 minutes later you’re trying on tortoiseshell cat-eyes you’d never wear, just for the fun of it. No pressure, though. They leave you alone to stare at yourself in the mirror, which is honestly the most honest reflection you’ll get all week.
