Flawed

I was walking to work last week and I passed the flashy signboard a few blocks down from my office. A few months after its placement, it finally got the better of my curiosity that day. I went up to the first floor and checked out the plastic surgery centre.

It wasn't because I think that my cheeks need to be deflated, or that I want to literally make mountains out of molehills (if you get my drift); rather, I was being no more than a harmless nosey parker or despicable snitch, depending on one’s outlook.

I took one floor up and was welcomed into an open office space with earth-toned walls and swanky white minimalist furniture. There was a sweet-ish clinical smell to the chilly air.

“How may I heptchoo?” asked the cherub-faced girl at the front desk.

Think fast, retard.

“Uuuuuuuuuhhh… I was wondering if you… do… um… mole removal?”

“Oh, no we don’t sorry.”

“So you do more of like, uh, cosmetic stuff… like… surgery?”

“Yyyyes, that’s right.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you. I’m gonna take a business card here if that’s ok.”

I left with the sense of disenchantment looming over my head. As I toddled downstairs with the orange card in my hand, I flipped it to the back and read the words in fine print:

We Serve: Whitening + ComplexionPeelingTreatment + Slimming + DoubleEyelid + Eyebag + Rhinoplasty + WrinkleRemoval + FaceReshaping + Lipos-

Eyebag?

Hey, that could work.

I strode back into the centre and made myself look convincing with a less-than-obvious squint.

“Hi again. Erm, I was checking out your card, and it says you do Eyebags…”

“Yes we do! Would you like to make an appointment with our consultant?”

“Yeah, ok… How’s lunchtime today?”

* * *

I came back at noon, where the front desk girl served me warm water in a teacup while I filled up a client registration form in the waiting area. A few minutes passed and I was lead into a small room with an elegant Mac flatscreen monitor flanking a wooden table.

The consultant was pretty; as she spoke to me I began to wonder if she herself was an endorsement to the company. She examined my face and said my left eyebag was in bad shape. She wasted little time in laying down the prices and procedure. It was RM1800 for non-surgical lipids removal, RM2800 for minor surgery and RM3800 for serious cases brought on by age. She suggested the middle price, since the non-surgical results wouldn’t be as effective as it doesn’t remove the excess skin. The surgery would last two hours under local anasethetic.

She drew a short arc.

“This is your bottom eyelid.”

She decorated it with miniature crosses.

“We will sew you up just at the lashline, so it won’t look very obvious...”

“Oh! Wow, okay. That’s great.”

Underneath the table, my fingertips burrowed into my thighs.

The swelling would subside within days, and the stitches would be removed in a week. In the meantime, it was strongly suggested that I don’t touch or rub my eyes. Fine, that’s obvious. And then she said I couldn’t get my eyes in contact with water. Fair enough.

And then she said I would have to abstain from crying.

A sensitive baby like me would suffer less trauma careening downhill in a car with faulty brakes.

She turned to the flat screen monitor and showed me before-and-after pictures of previous patients. The ‘after’ pictures were impressive, albeit a bit too perfect. The total absence of any sign of bags or dark circles made the faces look almost doll-like.

I confessed to her that I’d be doing it behind my parents’ back so I would have had possible trouble in the moolah area. The consultant scanned through the client form and noted that I was a ‘Student’. *Cue conniving snicker* She assured me that I could pay in installments if I wasn’t able to pay straight up. In the meantime, I would have to stay clear from college and parents (“You can tell them you’ll be sleeping over your friend’s house!”) at least for a few days until the swelling subsides.

I told the consultant nervously that I would still need some time to seriously consider the procedure, which she was completely cool with. She said she gets a lot of patients who are in my age range, especially with regards to double eyelid surgery.

I exited the centre feeling no different about my body image than before I entered it. In fact, what was supposed to be a pointless mission left me feeling more grateful for the facial features which my parents use as an excuse to give me lectures about clubbing too much. Whatever my face has grown into has become part and parcel of my character. So what if I look haggard. It’s proof of my life.

I'm happy with how I look. I however tend to wonder how different my perceptions would be if my appearance wasn't as socially acceptable: if my face wasn't as symmetrical, if my body wasn't as proportionate, if my physical flaws were more outstanding. If I was shorter. If I was bigger boned. If my ears stuck out. If my teeth weren’t aligned. If I had chubby ankles. If I had a crooked back. Would I think any differently of myself if I was born a different body?

Sometimes I despise how I take myself for granted.