Plastic Surgery

My friend just got a boob job. I don’t really have anything else to say about it.

I think I’m supposed to be judgmental about it. Even my husband sort of expected that from me. I guess I’m supposed to Disapprove, on feminist principles, or something, but I don’t. Here’s the thing: It doesn’t matter what you look like.

I learned that from two of my favorite Famous People: Dolly Parton and Joan Rivers. I judged them for a while. But then I thought: Would Joan Rivers really have been on Fashion Police if she looked like most 81-year-olds — a ruff of wrinkles, a sagging physiognomy, a litter of liver spots — and be permitted to prick with her acid wit insipid, badly dressed, much younger stars? Maybe she accepted something about Hollywood I haven’t. I would have loved to have seen her face, the face she would have had, wrinkles and sags and liver spots. She wouldn’t have, but I would. Joan! I would have said, because she would have looked divine, divinely like herself, and that would have pleased me.

Dolly, too — I would like to see her unaltered face, the lines that would be hers, the age. Not that she doesn’t look good. But she doesn’t look the same.

But what I learned, from Joan and Dolly, is that I still loved them — Joan’s humor, Dolly’s music — because it doesn’t matter what you look like. It can’t change who you are.

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