It's no secret that I'm a fan of cosmetic surgery. I'm no Bride of Wildenstein but I definitely know which side of the fence I’d prefer to park my lipo’d bum on. And as controversial as it is, some stories are just meant to be told, so here's mine - in all it's mortifying detail...
After repeatedly being told that I would 'grow into' my nose, I didn't. I'm not sure where this idea of one part of your face growing into the others even came from. My parents should've done me a favour and started a nose job fund for me in place of a Uni one when it became apparent that I'd been blessed with The Family Hooter.
My nose never weighed me down, so to speak, although I did have a few adolescent run-ins that made me all the more aware of it - I remember being in the bathroom at a party when I was about 15 and overhearing two boys outside, one of whom was describing me as 'The One With The Big Nose.' Ever classy, I stormed out of the toilet and punched him in his aforementioned. That's as bad as it ever got, although I'm sure there were a number of miserable 'why doesn't he fancy me?' fits that could have been avoided if I'd had a perfect ski-slope instead of my craggy cliff-face.
Surgery didn't ever really occur to me as a viable option until my second year of Uni. My cousin had her boobs done in Athens and flew me out for a consultation with her notoriously arrogant celebrity surgeon. I went armed with questions, pictures and suggestions - all the proper, sensible advice they give you on English websites about what to ask. That's not how they get down in Greece, however. I was essentially told to ‘ask around’ if I wanted proof of his abilities and that was that. Being young and impressionable, I was sort-of hoodwinked into booking the surgery anyway. The year-long waiting list appeased me as I signed an official-looking piece of paper in a language I couldn’t read. A year-long list of people couldn't be wrong, could they?
The Big Day finally arrived and after not being allowed to eat for 12 hours beforehand, I checked in (?) to the hospital at midday, my mum acting as a really lax translator who nonchalantly gave them all the wrong answers to key questions like my age and whether or not I was on the pill. I had no idea when I'd get called to surgery so I waited...and waited...and waited...until 11pm. I was asked to undress (always fun infront of male nurses) and was put in a rather fetching pair of paper pants and a backless gown. Having previously removed all my makeup and taken out my contacts, I resembled an embarrassed, scrubbed mole. To add insult to injury, I was then wheeled down to surgery on a gurney that was skinnier than me. My lack of contact lenses made me blind but not blind enough to miss the stacks of empty coffee mugs and overflowing ashtrays in the surgery.
It was freezing in there so coupled with my nervousness I was convulsing on the gurney as dozens of people scurried over my head speaking impenetrable medical Greek. (My grasp of the language basically stretches to the words for condiments and some very rudimentary swearing.) It suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't even seen the surgeon since my consultation with him 12 months prior. "Shit!", I'm thinking, "I'm gonna wake up with massive boobs and the same nose." Panicking, I insist on seeing him as my arm gets tucked into my paper knickers. "Nice", I'm thinking, "I'm already getting treated like a bloody cadaver." Looking pissed off, the Doc storms over and looms over me: "Yes?" "Err...please don't make me look like a pig," I stutter, pushing my nose up at the tip to clarify my point. "What, you think I'm stupid?" (This was his actual quote - no word of a lie). The anaesthetist comes over, puts a needle in my hand and grunts "Sleep now" at me in her best horror movie voiceover accent. It all goes black as I start to pray that I'll see my mother again...
My next memory is pain, drifting in and out of consciousness, being stripped naked (again) and manhandled into pyjamas whilst my mum asked me ridiculously complicated questions like what my boyfriend's phone number was. Er, hello? I'm semi-conscious! I'm out of it but not enough to agree to use a bed-pan (never!) so have to be escorted to the toilet (one nurse under each arm). Knickers pulled down for me, plonked on the loo seat and watched spending a penny by two complete strangers. Nice. Next thing I remember I've dragged them both onto the floor with me as I've slipped back under. The surgeon came to check on me as I'm complaining of a headache (er, yes love, you've been hit in the face with a hammer), as my mother's happily suggesting they give me a suppository. "NO!" I manage to yelp, I'd rather be hit in the face with a hammer again thanks very much. I've already fallen over, been stripped naked and peed with the help of strangers. My virgin ass is the last bastion of dignity I have!
So, after the nose tampon removal (yowzers), shit fits that the Doc had given me a pig nose despite my very clear instructions not to, and being bathed and fed like a cranky geriatric, it was all worthwhile. Despite all the craziness I would absolutely do it again. In fact, I've just signed up to have cosmetic dentistry which will involve 2 years of braces and jaw surgery half way through treatment. As nervous as I am, I'm oddly looking forward to having plastic surgery again. I guess what they say about it being addictive is true. It’s a decision based on risk versus gain but if it’s done well, it can be a wonderfully life-changing experience.
So, vain, brave or stupid? What do you think about going under the knife?
