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I went to Beverly Hills High School, where rhinoplasty was about as common as getting a driver’s license. Most of the girls in my class came back from spring break of sophomore year with surgical tape across the bridges of their new, turned up noses, a faint glow of under-eye purple and Arnica tablets.
Cosmetic surgery was so normal in my teens, I begged my Persian parents for a boob job for my 18th birthday. I’m lucky they scoffed at me, because as a late bloomer, I would have looked completely ridiculous by 23. Years later, however, I was struggling with my image when I finally jumped aboard the vanity-bandwagon.
In the past, I toyed with the idea of altering my looks in some way, but I never succumbed to the temptation because I felt very judgmental about the type of people who actually get cosmetic procedures. I’m not so holier-than-thou any longer. Turns out, I was one of those people. I was feeling insecure, comparing my beauty to others (who is taller, thinner, prettier, more desirable?), always wanting to change my appearance in some way. I've hated that when I smile really big, my gums show. With practice I learned how to pose better. The key is to never really smile too much—a technique that worked for photos but not so much in real life. I had an old ex-boyfriend once tell me that I looked like Mr. Ed when I laughed—talk about a self-esteem killer.
So, one day, when I was feeling especially bad about myself—I was having issues with my boyfriend, miserable at my job, I had gained some weight—a close friend asked me to come along to her appointment with one of Beverly Hills' finest cosmetic surgeons. She was celebrating her 35th birthday by having her face injected with Botox. I went along for moral support—it was her birthday, after all—never considering that I would walk out with my lips injected with Restylane.
45 minutes later, I had paid $600 to be numbed, poked, squeezed and iced, then praised by one of Yale’s finest. It was really that simple, and it only took me a few minutes to realize what a mistake I had made. I already have full lips! As I was heading home, I kept telling myself, "the swelling will go down." It didn’t.
All my close friends and family noticed my new pout. I couldn’t wear lip gloss for the better part of three months, because when I did, people would glance at my lips in a suspicious manner—when I didn’t, I imagined the stares regardless. The injection had even made my smile a bit crooked—I went back to the doctor to try to have it fixed, but it only got worse. My plumper lips didn’t make me feel more secure, sexy or desired. In fact, they did quite the opposite. My boyfriend was appalled by my alteration, although he was gracious enough to tell me otherwise. When it had all worn off, he fessed up, saying he didn’t like the way I looked, and that it felt really weird to kiss me because my lips felt so hard.
When I really thought about the whole experience, and what drove me to do it, I realized how it was easier to deflect my raging insecurities by getting my lips done, rather than actually addressing what wasn’t working for me inside my mind. Making that shift entirely changed my perception on image, accolades, cosmetic surgery—and myself, overall. Although my life still doesn’t feel perfect and my insecurities haven’t fully dissipated, I would never get work done again. This whole ordeal helped me assess the big picture with more clarity and integrate some serious changes.
Thankfully, my lips are now back to normal, and I'm relieved I didn’t do something more permanent to myself. Since my plump-up, I changed my job, started writing again, lost 15 pounds by changing my eating and exercise habits, and I’m single again. Most importantly, though, after feeling trapped with someone else’s lips for a couple of months, I feel more secure the way I am now—with my quirks, flaws, gums and all.
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