Diary Of A Plastic Surgery Addict

A 36-year-old upper-middle-class woman decides to tell in the first person the reason for her obsession: liposuction, rhinoplasty, breast augmentation ... Her search for perfection will lead her to the best surgeons in the world and other discoveries ...

My love of plastic surgery began six years ago, after my second child's birth, when I decided that breastfeeding had had consequences and that I was going to have to enhance my two natural charms. Two hundred and twenty-five cubic centimeters of silicone later, my ego was almost as oversized as my bra size. I was elated. I wish everything was that easy in life! I would have no problem getting used to this kind of thing.

This idyllic first experience under the scalpel came to make me a fan of cosmetic surgery. I am not the wife of a footballer or a television star, but I am fortunate enough not to have to worry about the financial implications of undergoing these types of operations. Most of my friends are in the same situation, and all of them have a habit of correcting those elements of their physique that do not convince them, through daily visits to the hairdresser, botox or anti-wrinkle fillers, cleaning of skin once a week, breast implants and whatever it takes. We're not talking about mindless firecrackers - most of them are highly educated women.

Of course, if I had to choose between paying for my children's schools or giving myself a smooth forehead, I would be forced to carefully weigh the pros and cons of each treatment. Having financial means has made me less tolerant of my physical imperfections. Most women learn to live with their flaws because they cannot afford to correct them. But I can, and the temptation is so seductive that I can't resist.

I recently discovered that I had some wrinkles on my butt. I wasted no time and contracted a procedure called Thermage. Among other things, the specialist massaged my skin with a burning device, which supposedly favors the production of collagen and causes the skin to become as soft as that of a baby. The pain was so intense that I had to chew on a plastic dog toy so that my screams would not disturb the other patients. I had no problem paying two thousand pounds for a scientifically dubious treatment, prompted by the simple image of an upturned ass in a commercial brochure.

Two months have passed, and now I have a great nose. There is no doubt that Kanodia has done a good job. The question is to know how many more interventions I am going to undergo. While I don't rule out botox, fillers, a stretch, or even a tummy tuck, my experience in Los Angeles makes me think twice. It may be a cliché, but I am trying to understand where my compulsion to change my appearance comes from and what I can do not to pass this obsession on to my daughters. I'm not sure if I'll find the answer in my regular visits to the psychologist, but now I am clear that the answer is not on a surgeon's scalpel.