What My Nose Job Taught Me

My late grandmother wrote me a check to cover miscellaneous college expenses. I was eighteen years old, about to go to university out of state. Immediately after my parents told me the check was written, I told them I was getting a nose job. There was no argument, no ā€œGod made you this way.ā€ The fight to convince me that I was beautiful had been lost, lost a long time ago, and no clothes or compliments or verses from Proverbs could put that damaged girl back together again.

I sat with nervous excitement in the waiting room of the first plastic surgeon whose office returned my calls. They called me into a low-lit room with a giant Nikon hanging from the ceiling and I sat in a spinny chair as a thirty-something with really thin eyebrows took pictures of me from every angle. In between sips of lemon ice water, I was told that my nose could be ā€œelegantā€ and ā€œfeminine.ā€ He said he would give me every discount possible, which I’m assuming was true, based on the actual price. In less than thirty minutes, I was convinced enough to sign the dotted line, and I was on my way to changing the face I’d known and loathed for seven years.

The bullying about my nose began when I was eleven. I skipped school when I didn’t want to be seen, and eventually I was transferred somewhere else. I Photoshopped almost every picture of me: holiday cards, profile pictures — I even asked my senior portrait photographer to give me a better nose. I hated myself for hating myself. To be honest, sometimes I still do. If only I hadn’t let the bullies get to me, if only I hadn’t accepted societal standards of beauty, if only I defined my self-worth somewhere other than the mirror. When I was at my lowest, feeling hopelessly ugly and unlovable, I would tell myself the same thing: I will fix it one day. And so I did.

The surgery was early in the afternoon. The room was very cold. My mom took three blurry pictures on my iPhone, pictures of a girl I no longer recognize. The operation took longer than they expected and the stars were out when I was wheeled to my car. I processed this as scientific validation that my nose totally sucked.

Today, I’m home for the summer and a year out of surgery, having a sleepover with my best friend of 16 years. She asked me — was it worth it? Does it still hurt?

Yes, it was worth it. For the first time, I know how it feels to be confident in my own skin. The parties, the boys, the carefree days and the compliments — that’s what I wanted. And that’s what I got. I can finally look in the mirror and see a face I admire. But it still hurts. Before surgery, I told my therapist I wanted to become a more confident version of myself, a girl whose personality and humor isn’t veiled by her insecurities. News flash: I still deal with anxiety, I still have my ugly days and sometimes boys leave me alone on the dance floor to ā€œgrab a drink.ā€

It’s ironic, but plastic surgery showed me anything superficial is just that: superficial. It’s what’s within you that makes or breaks you; the difference is that sometimes we let our appearances take the lead role in making or breaking us. I let my nose break me, but it turns out that, for the most part, I just wanted something to blame for my shortcomings. That happy, confident girl I wanted to uncover wasn’t hiding beneath extra cartilage — she’s inside of me, somewhere below the demons I’ve ignored for years. If it took a nose job to figure out where she was, so be it.

Plastic is a dirty word. People who get cosmetic surgery are shallow, self-indulgent and too rich for their own good. I get it. Maybe I am a little shallow, a little self-indulged, maybe I didn’t spend my money the right way. You can sift through every word I wrote and find your own justification to discredit my decision, but at the end of the day, I’m the only one with a real responsibility to confront my insecurities, just as you’re the only one who can confront yours. TC mark

image – Shutterstock

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