but even now; I was a bundle of nerves. I gazed about the doctor's office. There was an original movie poster for Karloff's Frankenstein on the wall. It would have been ironic indeed for a plastic surgeon to own had he not spent about $50,000 to purchase it from a dealer at Christie's.
I expelled a deep punctuated sigh and pulled my compact make-up mirror out of my purse. This was it. The last brief consultation before I slipped under the knife. I had to see my face one more time before the procedures were scheduled to begin.
Susan called on the cell. I anxiously answered it.
"Can't talk right now, I'm in the doctor's office!" I snapped tersely and abruptly ended the call.
I'll apologize later for being rude when she has completely forgotten about it, I thought.
Right now; I had to stay focused. I couldn't afford to entertain any distractions- especially of the Susan-variety. I opened my compact mirror and slowly gazed at my reflection. This was me. I wanted to memorize every crevice, contour, blemish and age line on my face before they disappeared. Crazy I know, but I suppose it's like the only time you get sentimental about your old car is the day they ask you to trade it in. My face wasn't bad. Many guys even adored it, but for what I had in mind; I guess you can say I was drastically moving up the food-chain from vestal virgin to temple goddess. It was the kind of long journey a girl packs a lunch for during the waning ugly duckling years but I suppose the coming of age train had completely passed me by. It's not like it didn't make some impact on me. Well... how can I put this? Let's just say guys were falling in love with the wrong end of the train.
Now I know the first girl-rule of attraction, behind Sir Issac Newton's often over-looked one is... women should take the attention wherever we get it and embellish those parts of our body that's, well... worshipped.
But I wanted a million dollar face... without spending quite that much for it.
To tell you the truth, there is something wonderful about the geometric design of a face: the shape of a nose, the arch of the eye brows, and the quiet smack of moist lips as we swap away our own lipstick with a napkin while guys greedily watch us-- No wonder Lesbians loved women.
I suppose the people who appreciate beauty the most are the ones who most lack possession of it. My eyes misted on the thought. I wanted my face to reflect the beauty that was on the inside and I wanted it stated in rather dramatic fashion.
Now there are a lot of super-models in the world; liberated hotties; million-dollar babies; synthetic Barbie dolls; glam girls; celebrity you-don't-know-who-I ams; trophy wives & girl friends; Playboy playmates; show my breast for who-are-you-again?; poster babes; dancing queens; drag queens; and the too grown up to be cheerleader types; but the kind of beauty I had in my mind was old-fashioned glamour. The way Hollywood use to do it in the Golden Age of Talkies; reminiscent of something directors called a close-up.
Back then, you couldn't help but fall in love with a woman's face. It was such a canvass of emotions. It was real beauty. You couldn't grow stuff like that in a test-tube even if Mendel crossed a half-dozen dieting super models with all of Hefner's playmates.
The door to the doctor's office suddenly sprang open.
"Dr. Andrews will be right in to see you," said the nurse, briefly tucking her head inside the door.
I looked up from my compact mirror and nodded. As the nurse closed the door, I thought about everything I would say to the doctor when he walked through that door.
Maybe I didn't have to say anything. I opened my briefcase and pulled out a huge stack of black and white glossy photos of former screen actress Joan Crawford. Every picture had a different feature of her face circled with a red marker. My God! She was so beautiful. Her face was so perfect. Joan was the perfect example of what could possibly happen when God had one too many angels working the assembly line.
That's what I want; I planned to tell the doctor. I want Joan Crawfordıs face.
The door opened and the doctor walked into the room. I clinched the stack of photos tightly and breathed a collected sigh of relief.
-Ellen Rogers
To be continued...
