Vanity, Schmanity
December 24, 2003
Recently, a friend called my attention to a news story. It seems that many women have endured surgery on their feet, not because of injuries, but in order to better fit into fashionably slim, high-heeled shoes. I think my friend thought it was outrageous, while I, on the other hand, thought it was simply inevitable. Considering the lengths to which women will go to satisfy their vanity, a little slicing and dicing of their tootsies is small potatoes.
The ladies have had their tummies tucked, their noses snipped, their eyebrows plucked, their breasts enlarged, and their faces and fannies lifted, to a faretheewell. I join the multitude of orthopedic surgeons in saying it's high time they did something about their feet.
I figure it's only a matter of weeks before America's moms take a page out of China's old book of tried and true tortures, and start binding the feet of their baby daughters. Why not? If he were alive today, the Marquis de Sade wouldn't be regarded as a world class degenerate; he'd hang his shingle in Beverly Hills and be raking in millions, plastic surgeon to the stars.
It wasn't ever thus. It wasn't all that long ago that nearly the only people who had plastic surgery performed on them were those who'd been born with harelips or cleft palates, or were the unfortunate victims of car crashes, fire or war. But I can remember the exact moment I became aware that the world, at least the world of cosmetic surgery, was changing before my eyes. I was at a party, and the host's mother -- a lady about 60, a woman I had never met -- came up to me and said, "Well, what do you think?"
Ever the master of clever repartee, I replied, "What do I think of what?"
"My face lift."
Honestly, I can't recall what I said back to her. Knowing me, I probably mumbled, "You look great," and then wandered off to get another drink. What I do recall was that I was shocked. Oh, I knew that some movie stars were rumored to have gone under the knife. But I assumed the whole point of the procedure was to fool people. If you were going to go around asking perfect strangers to comment on Dr. Frankenstein's handiwork, didn't that defeat the entire purpose?
Since then, the country's gone gaga over cosmetic surgery. Cher and Michael Jackson can't get enough of it, while people like Phyllis Diller and Joan Rivers can't stop talking about it.
I, myself, would never have it done. For one thing, just walking past a doctor's office is enough to make me queasy. For another, I've gone through life trying to avoid letting strangers with knives get too close to me, and, at this late date, I'm not about to change my ways.
But, then, I'm not a movie star. For enough money, I just might bend a rule or two. Look at Halle Berry. She had her figure enhanced, and her salary jumped through the roof. The money she spent was probably the best investment anyone's made since my uncle Al bought Microsoft at 8 1/2.
Even for show biz types, there is a risk factor. Particularly when it comes to face lifts. The trouble is that after you've had that first one, you have to keep having them done every few years. And after the first couple, your face becomes so taut that you can no longer change expressions. You wind up with your eyebrows up around your hairline, with people assuming you exist in a state of perpetual amazement.
There is one other major drawback that they don't mention in the brochure. After having themselves filled up with plastic, women wind up having all the sexual allure of inflatable dummies.
I mean, let's face it -- by this time, I doubt if even her schnauzer could pick Demi Moore out of a crowd of Barbie dolls.
©2003 Burt Prelutsky
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