One of my besties has had a facelift. She described it as ‘truly weird’, and we had an extended back and forth about it, because she hadn’t wanted to tell me (she lives on the left coast), due to her fear that I would judge her, and harshly. I had a few moments of – hm – how to say it? Anger? Slight upset, rather. Yes, slight upset that she would ever think, my best, best friend, that I would be such an asshole as to judge her for doing what she needed and wanted to do for herself, to herself, in order to meet her own needs and desires.
That said, would I ever have a facelift? Fuck no. Voluntarily go under the knife, ever, for any reason? Fuck no, hell no, no way – not ever!! Also, do I really and truly believe in bodily autonomy for everyone? Hell yes, I do, and that includes my friend getting a facelift. You do you, girlfriend! With my absolutely blessing and support. In fact, as she struggled to tell me what she had done several weeks previously, saying, ‘I have something to tell you that you’re not going to like’, I thought, but did not voice, ‘You’ve had a facelift, haven’t you?’ Because, y’see, I’ve met my friend.; I know her. I knew her mother (slightly), too, and she (her mom) had two facelifts (at least). My friend has already been dipping into light plastics (filler, Botox, skin peels, and the rest) for over a decade. So, no, I’m not surprised.
My darling friend works in a very public facing business in Southern California, which means the pressure is real and everywhere; she lives around and in a culture that prizes outer appearances to a shocking and debilitating degree. Shocking and debilitating to me. To me. I’m not sure I could do it, and I am so glad I don’t have to: live in that world. Her mother-in-law has had at least one facelift, as have many if not all of the very, almost exclusively (a statistical impossibility) blond women around her, and – yuppers – a few of the men as well. She, my bestie, has also had not one but two boob jobs. Two because the first implants solidified in her chest, and had to be removed. We were already BFFs by then.
Here’s the other thing about my BFF, I know the back story – not all of it because we never know it all – because when she described the pain of her first boob job (and why do male docs always insist ‘this won’t hurt a bit!’?), I asked: why would you do that to yourself? Why did you? Well, she explained, given her dad took off when she was three, her entire existence up to about age thirty (the first boob job was age 23-24) was about how to both attract and keep men in her life. Ah. That makes total sense.
And, we were both actresses. That business, the business of show, is a meat grinder. Every single time I see an actress who is still working at over forty-years of age, I say a prayer for her because she needs and deserves it. I confess I also look for the obvious scars, the nips and tucks that, in less skilled hands or simply because of facial structure or hairlines, are apparent to the knowledgeable naked eye. It is almost impossible to live and work in that business and not have ‘work done’; that includes newscasters.
There was a long-time foreign affairs reporter on PBS who had so much filler injected and such intense work done as she naturally aged – including a facelift or two – that she no longer had any facial expressions, none at all. It was weird and disconcerting. And, the pressure is real, my friends (See Call My Agent, season one, for more context).
I reminded my BFF of the 1985 film Brazil, which had a darkly hilarious through line of plastic surgery, and we both laughed, remembering it. She said, she would have to see it again; it had been a favorite film of both partners during her first marriage. That movie’s story line had a profound effect on me, because of its gob smacking ‘domino effect from hell’ plastic surgery twists and turns; there is no fucking way I would ever set even my left pinky toe down that road. Nope. Add to that a documentary I stumbled across in my thirties that showed what a facelift actually entails… OH HELL NO. I couldn’t watch the entire thing. Nope.
Bodily autonomy is either for everyone (yes, please) or no one (fuck no). I am struck by the thought that women have less or more rights depending on which state they live in, while men have equal rights regardless of their residence. I am struck by the thought that the trans discussion is endlessly about trans women and trans women in women’s sports, not ever trans men or trans men’s participation in athletics. The causal assumptions made by the dominant culture and discussion hit me where I live. I am struck, too, always, daily, by the obsession we have in this world over women’s clothing, women’s hair styles, women’s choices, women’s rest rooms!
The patriarchy is exhausting. It requires too little and too much of us, of all of us regardless of gender. It harms all of us, women and girls most of all.
When I asked my mother at age twelve did she think I was pretty, she said ‘well, you’re not beautiful like your sisters, but you have personality and that will attract men’, I had two equal reactions. One was hurt and dismay, ‘I’m not beautiful?!!’ The other was ‘Why is this about men? How and where did they get involved? Why are my looks – which belong to me, right? Why’re they suddenly about men?’
I had so much to learn, but, and, however, I was not wrong. My looks, my body, my choices – are mine, belonging to me and me alone.
Our inner critics are the real judges we fear, not our loving friends. Our inner critics are the lens through which we have been trained to view ourselves and our choices, and for all of history the inner lens was created by and designed to serve the needs and wants of men, white men predominantly. That is changing, but ohmigawdess, not nearly fast enough.
I will see my friend this summer, and yes, I am a little nervous about it. We can read the most subtle signs from those we know well on even surgically altered faces; we can read those reactions, can we not? Still and all, she is and always has been beautiful to me inside and out, mostly because she is whip smart and funny AF, generous of spirit, loving and kind. She is also moving back to the east coast to spend more time with her grandchildren, who call her ‘Lovie’, not grandma (never!!) on the long road of the unfolding story of this individual human I so love.
Lovie.
For now, let’s celebrate having the choice, the choices, to do what we need and want to do for and to ourselves while doing the work of expanding those rights and choices for others. Let’s celebrate and elevate and refine the viewpoint and lens of the only critic and cheerleader that truly matters: each and every individual one of us.