Photo courtesy of Kat. I will never, ever ask her what that long pokey thing is for.
I had never given much thought to plastic surgery before
moving to Orange County. An old friend
of mine was married to a plastic surgeon, and she always talked about how she
could tell when someone had work done. I
thought she was crazy. How could anyone
know? But once I got here I
understood. Its like I had been studying
genuine dollar bills my whole life, and suddenly I was surrounded by
counterfeits—some subtle, some glaring.
We used to laugh about it amongst our tribe, how we were probably the
only natural women left in all of OC.
How many holiday cards have we received of parents and kids, in matching
outfits (jeans with white top my favorite) down by the beach in Corona del Mar,
with the “serious” photo and the “crazy” photo?
You know what I’m talking about.
In one, the family is all smiles, and in the other, they are straining
to contort their faces into silly shapes, in some effort (I’m assuming) to show
a sense of humor or playfulness—and mom looks exactly the same in both. And we all heard about the episode of Real
Housewives of Orange County wherein the film crew went with one Housewife to
her Megachurch, and she was dubbed “Jesus Jugs” for reasons I need not
explain. Women in Orange County are obsessed with image and appearances,
which for someone like me (who couldn’t be glamorous for more than five minutes
if an entire Hollywood film costume/hair/makeup department got its hands on me)
can be very isolating. I am the misfit,
over here in the corner, the one with (gasp!) laugh lines, (prepare yourself for it…) crows feet, and (take a long, relaxing deep breath here or maybe
pre-dial 911) that wrinkle between my
eyebrows that sometimes shows up when I’m perplexed. Totally shocking, I
know.
We’ve all seen how women tend to scrutinize one
another. You can watch them checking
each other out—the outfit, the shoes, the jewelry—some blatantly, and some with
curious side glances. I’m dying to know
what they’re thinking. For many, life is
a game of comparisons, of body, style, wrinkles, shoes. Some women I’ve met are the polar
opposite—all natural, athletic, outdoorsy, and maybe (maybe) even democrats
(seriously, don’t hold your breath on this one)—but instead of appearances the
comparisons seem to be about how healthy they are. With this crowd its all about being vegan,
gluten-free, and taking their enlarged breasts to Bali on yoga retreats. Somewhere in the middle is my tribe.
A former coworker of mine took a side job—admirable,
considering how much she was already working—because (I assumed and had heard) her
home was facing foreclosure and she had a few young kids. What I found out later is the money was used
for breast enlargement and a tummy tuck.
The house foreclosed. And yes,
the giant diamond cocktail ring stayed on her finger. How is it possible to sacrifice family household
security for the sake of appearances? I
cannot connect with this reasoning at all.
One of the stranger trends I’m finding amongst women I meet
is fake hair. Wigs, extensions, clip-on pieces…I’ve
seen it all. I actually tasted it all
one night too, when a woman standing next to me at the bar of a restaurant
dramatically flung her hair over her shoulder for attention, and it flew right
into my mouth as I was talking. It was
nasty and disgusting, and she didn’t even
notice my attempts to untangle her hair from my face! What else does her fake hair touch without
her knowledge? (I’m actually having a
minor panic attack right now, remembering the Friends episode when Phoebe revealed
she caught hepatitis from a pimp spitting in her mouth.) In my search for a new tribe, I’ve had a few
acquaintances with extensions. It is
initially a bit confusing. The first
time I encountered it, I thought wow, Jen
got a haircut and took off eight inches—how bold and fresh! In hindsight my mistake was in
complementing her hair, rather than her haircut,
because she could have explained it and saved me from the shock of seeing those
eight inches right back where they started three days later. Off and on these extensions come—off for a
casual afternoon luncheon, but always on for cocktails and dinner. Do men care about this at all? I myself am baffled.
One of my first business dinners in OC was at Fleming’s
Steakhouse. After the presentation and
dinner, in those final networking moments before
racing home to be done with the day, I was actually offered botox by
someone with a family connection. I
wasn’t sure if I should feel flattered or offended. (Am I being invited into an inner circle, or
am I some wrinkly hot mess you can’t stand to look at during a business meeting?) Thankfully in that moment I was so shocked by
his casual offer my face actually froze, which seemed to disarm him a bit while
I pondered how to politely decline.
I was recently invited to Taco Tuesday at a popular cantina
on the harbor. The room was so packed
the servers were practically crawling under peoples’ legs to get through the
crowd. We had apparently hit The Place
To Be That Night. Looking around the
room, I started to sense something strange.
Of course the women were all in the same uniform—leggings, high heels,
fur vests—hair long and straight. But
there was a familiarity I felt with everyone as my eyes moved through the
crowd. It took a few minutes to hit
me. These
women all look alike. Slender noses
with a flair at the nostril, high cheekbones, pointy chins, overflowing
lips…they all looked related! They were
Sisters of the Same Surgeon. I have traveled
the world, my friends. When you go to
Mongolia, people look Mongolian. In
Japan they look Japanese. In Northern
Europe people look Northern European. In
Newport Beach they look like page six of the surgery catalog.
Does any of this matter?
In the grand scheme of things, no.
Plastic surgery doesn’t define a person, and I would never begrudge a
woman for doing a little procedure here or there. (If you birth six kids and your bellybutton
hangs down to your knees, by all means feel free to clean that mess up and hop
back into your bikini. No judgment
here.) But in my deepest moments when I
ponder the world—the poverty in Africa and India, wars, human rights
violations, lack of access to basic human necessities—is it possible to discuss
these issues with someone who spends tens of thousands of dollars to look like
everyone else at Taco Tuesday? Can you have a real connection to someone
who isn’t real?
I read an article last year about how important adult facial
expression is for babies. It made me
wonder whether a mom’s copious botox could actually affect an infant’s emotional
development. Perhaps we’ll know in
another decade. But I do think it affects
her ability to connect with others.
Think about it: all of those reality TV shows of botoxed women crying
for whatever reason…isn’t it the strangest thing ever? Their faces are frozen! When I watch a movie like Out of Africa and
Meryl Streep’s Karen is mourning the tragic death of Robert Redford’s Denys, I mourn
with her. Why? 1) If I’m watching Out of Africa I’m probably
PMS-ing, but 2) I can feel what she is feeling.
I can see her pain. When I watch a
Real Housewife “cry” on TV (also typically done while PMS-ing), I have no
response at all. Its like watching a
robot make squeaky sounds. As a species
we have mastered the use of our facial muscles; they animate our stories. They communicate frustration, joy, despair, anger,
surprise. How nice is it to sit across
from someone and see her responses to what you are saying? Compassion, understanding, even empathy can
be communicated without words. But
mutual experience of all of these emotions is, in my humble opinion, blunted
with the loss of that visual connection with someone. For me, it certainly plays a part in my
feeling a bit disconnected and Alone in OC.
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