2006-10-12 - 11:50 p.m.

I read an article today about some actor's botched boob job, and how she had finally contracted another plastic surgeon to fix her chest up again. The first surgery, she voluntarily (to the point that a pretty, blonde woman who believes the "most innocuous"-looking lies of society about beauty standards can 'consent') let someone cut, suck, and mould a part of her that was already perfectly 'acceptable', even by the standards of our beloved patriarchy. If that had been the reason it was thought to be newsworthy, I'd understand. But, no: the article let us all release a relieved sigh from our own breastly regions, because her boobs are real perrty-lookin' agin.

Of course, people report on ridiculous things all the time when there are many newsworthy items around. And there are people who would be interested in the happiness this second attempt caused the actor - because she'd felt freakish beforehand, apparently. (I'll bet that 'freakishness' was around BEFORE the Almighty Fuck Up, though. Otherwise why would it've happened? It wasn't a job to clear up a clogged duct or cut out an unsightly cyst from the breast, I'll say that much. But I'll stop projecting now.)

And, of course, it goes without saying that there is something a little wrong with medicine/society/us when cosmetic surgeons exist to make breasts larger and not to help create a new appearance after a child is born with a hare lip, or someone is attacked by a dog and left with facial scarring, or (medical!) surgery leaves disfiguring marks.

But what I'm actually leading to is the fact that I was looking in a mirror the other day and complained to my mother that I now had acne scars over my face (once the acne has cleared, I can better survey the battle scene. It's not a wonderful prognosis.)
"That's okay," she said, "They can fix that."

I will admit that I was, in fact, very taken aback. As ugly as it is, I still found myself questioning whether it would really be worth it to actually interfere with the body itself in order to fix up a few unsightly craters. I suddenly had visions of my mother taking me to secret chambers: first, hacking at eyelids to achieve that oh-so-shexy demure look, then, a succession of other treatments. There they would analyse my every flaw, pondering how best to liposuction the fat from my thighs and block the stretch marks with plastic.
Perhaps they'd go for the dreaded double-rack: break my legs and stretch me out on a rack, laughing at my cruel, cruel genetic fate and also at the, you know, agony; then to the other rack for a breast reduction on one side (oh, yes, friends, lopsided like a see-saw at the local eating disorder clinic, and didn't you just want to hear that intimate fact about my body too?) While we're here, perhaps I could get some of those freckles fixed up... collagen in the lips? Ooooh, botox! I've already got wrinkles at 17, I think botox would be a good idea.

Of course, a few seconds later she explained that it was... well, something. I'll admit I tuned out again at that point and started to analyse the lives and times of the cherry tomatoes in a bowl on the bench (but we must ask ourselves: what are the emotional implications of their SHAMEFUL TOMATO ORGY? You think I'm an idiot, but don't pretend you don't see it, all of them crammed together... mighty suspicious, says I), but I think she said something about... leveling? It still sounded pretty weird that my own mother (they're meant to be the ones who tell you you're 'pretty no matter what!') was suggesting... well, again, I don't quite remember what. But a THING! A THING! The very indignity!

I suppose I should, at least, be grateful that she isn't suggesting the double-rack yet.