It was once considered extreme, but cosmetic surgery has become normalised. In fact, writes Karen Kay, refusing to ‘have work done’ has made her unusual in many social circles. But is a more perfect self always a happier one?
Here is a confession: at 44 years of age, I have the face and body I deserve. My upper arms are fleshy and fulsome, bearing no resemblance to the sleek undulations of gym-honed muscle I paraded in my twenties. My post-caesarean belly protrudes over the waistband of my skinny jeans, pleading for the forgiving maternity styles I wore with pride eight years ago as I carried my then unborn daughter.
I have a bumpy nose that looks fine from the front, but makes me shudder if I see it in profile. I have a “well-defined jawline” – or a pointy chin, if you ask for my description. There are a few furrows on my brow, lines around my eyes, and the outsize bags beneath them would do Joan Collins proud checking in at Heathrow airport. My complexion reflects more than three decades of suffering from acne. In short, my face is, well, my face. It tells an honest story of a life lived. My life.