Inner Beauty

©2003 Jeff Gharakhanian
All rights reserved.

Here's how I look at it: if beauty's only skin deep, then get a fucking dermatologist. But we both know it's a lot deeper. That's where you come in. Beauty only starts with the skin, but its roots extend inside to your self-esteem. Only you can enhance both levels of beauty.

Fold some skin here, sear some there, and then staple it. Presto. You've created external beauty and reinforced self-esteem. Now your patient feels like a million bucks, and you get paid close to that amount.

I had to be pretty. No, the prettiest. I dreamed of looking like a queen, maybe get into a little acting. Plastic surgery is supposed to do wonders. So I came to you, Doctor. I put twelve thousand dollars of trust and faith into your skills. Now I don't even reflect a single penny of what I spent when I cautiously look into the mirror.

I emphasize cautiously, by the way.

Will you quit blinking? I can't draw if you're moving, and I need to make sure the lines are perfect. I don't want you looking as horrific as me.

Such a nice, clean office. You should really thank me for that shelf stereo. Perhaps I can turn on some music?

Oh, I love Bach.

I've read enough to know that it takes a while for the surgery results to turn out as expected. But ten months? No. Not after you told me "Three, Tracy—tops."

Like you said I would, I cried hard and often when my cheeks ached sporadically. But I cried even harder after everything healed. I cried after leaving the grocery store, when the children pointed and asked their mommies what I was. I cried at the doctor's office when I had bronchitis, and the receptionist tried to refer me to a dermatologist. I needed antibiotics, not a dermatologist.

But look at me. How can you blame them for assuming my face was the problem?

I cried when I had to make up lies to keep my friends from visiting me. I cried after I quit my job because I couldn't function in public relations. Please, tell me, how am I supposed to close a deal with this face? I cried hard, Doc. But the pain was just so overwhelming that I don't really think you'd understand. I tried to explain it to you, but this is the only way you can feel it. When I'm through with your procedure, you'll know exactly how I felt.

Exactly how I feel now, and exactly how I'll feel until I die.

Look at your lips. Ugh, much too thin. We'll have to fix these.

Now, I have to take off this duct tape so I can give you a cute little white clown mouth like you gave me. After you gave me hypopigmentation around my lips, I spent hours and money each day putting on makeup so I could cover it. I'd put some on, wash it off, put some on, wash it off. I haven't found anything yet that works. Good luck on your search.

Don't make a sound, Doc. It's past nine p.m., you're a bit tied down, and no one will hear you screaming. Don't forget that I have a vast library of sharp blades within arm's reach.

I sat around for months waiting for my scars to heal. The staples behind my ears were ugly and very visible; the hair by the staples fell out; the wrinkles in my skin looked like third-degree burns.

I would've rather died.

But why would you care? You got paid and washed your hands of everything.

You ruined my life, my career. And when I came to you for help, you did nothing. Not a damn thing. I still remember what you said:

"You signed the waiver, Tracy. Not all results will come out as desired. I am truly sorry, but you understood the risks involved when you went in."

You were so calm, so heartless.

Fuck you and whatever excuses you had for not helping me.

It's my turn to play God.

In a nutshell, I'm going to perform the biggest facelift procedure in history. When I'm done, you'll look very similar to me. Perhaps you can become my new lover, considering my boyfriend dropped me like a bad habit. But I find it hard to blame him.

I don't kiss monsters, either.

How about it, you and me? We could move into a one-room hut in a forest. We could be in love, blend in with the wild animals. Hunt for food, piss in the bushes. Never see another human face again for the rest of our lives. We'll eventually forget how ugly we are.

You're right. It would never work. I'll always hate your guts. If we were that isolated, I'd probably kill you.

When I'm done, your lips should be merely inches from your forehead. And, of course, I'll do all of this with staples and stitches. You'll be beautifully hideous.

Aw, come on. You should be happy. We all need to look a bit younger. A bit more pretty.

Okay, I'm just going to make a light incision around your lips so I can stuff them.

Collagen? No.

I brought a bag of cotton balls with me.

I got a sewing kit from home, too. I'll use pink thread to match your lips. I sterilized the needles, but I had to put them in my coin purse, so they may be a little dusty. Oh well, I guess it doesn't matter.

Okay, this will definitely hurt. I'm sorry, but I couldn't find the Novocain. It isn't exactly like you tried to help me find it, either. So I guess it's your fault.

I never realized how well your moans complement the music. You would have made a better opera singer than a cosmetologist.

Now, you're probably going to pass out from the pain, but when you wake up, you'll be reborn.

You're so messy, getting blood everywhere. All over your pressed white shirt. It must be expensive. Twelve thousand dollars can surely buy a few nice shirts.

Oh, you're fading. The pain is almost hypnotic, isn't it?

Wakie, wakie, Doc. You only have a couple of hours before you have to open your office. You slept for a long time. Hurry up, you have to show your clients your latest project.

Good. Let me spin you around so you can see yourself in the big mirror.

Oh, it's not that bad! I did the best I could.

And I did it for free.

You charged me twelve grand to ruin my life.

Oh, you might want to grab some new shirts because this one's a goner. Let me see the tag...

Yup, Valentino. I'd hate to see something so expensive like this get ruined if I were you. Oh, well. I guess you'll have to fuck someone else over, and then you can buy a new one.

Relax, I'm going to inject a little anesthesia. Actually a lot of it. I know that patients your age aren't usually allowed a general anesthetic, but you'll be glad I did this.

Being as old as you are, you'll definitely have a memory lapse and forget everything. You'll wonder where the blood stains on your shirt came from. Why you never came home from the office last night. Why your face aches unbearably.

Then you'll look in the mirror.

But you'll never be able to figure it out.

No one will.

But I want you to remember one thing. Just one thing.

No matter how you look at it, I bought you that fucking shirt, so make sure you at least try to wash it.

I hate seeing my money go to waste.

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