Day 23: PLASTIC FANTASTIC!

I’m supposed to “make a no-obligation appointment with a plastic surgeon and see what he recommends.”

First: I’m not sure if the use of “he” in that sentence is sexist or not. Anybody know what percentage of plastic surgeons are men? It seems like it would be a heavily male field, right? [This is where I make a joke about boobies.]

Second: Why the fuck do I care what a plastic surgeon thinks? What standard of beauty handsomeness is the plastic surgeon using? What ideal would my face be carved up to accord with? (Or: “in accordance to what ideal would my face be carved,” if ending a sentence on a preposition bothers you.) No amount of plastic surgery could make me look like this, and I could, instead, end up looking like this, or this, or this – or, God forbid, this.

Rather than asking somebody who wants to cut up my face – and get paid to do it! – I asked the one person whose opinion about my looks actually matters: my wife.

She said the only thing she’d change is the slantiness of my mouth – the left side is about a quarter-inch higher than the right – but, really, my beard hides it pretty well, and my glasses slant (much more noticeably) in the opposite direction. So, until I decide to shave my beard off (which will be never) and stop needing glasses (also never), there’s no good reason for me to have any “work” done. I am, aside from my mouth – which is both crooked and filthy – in that I swear a lot – it’s clean in a literal sense, because I brush my teeth regularly, though I don’t always ever floss – but who wants to read about my dental hygiene habits? – I say, aside from that – and I quote my wife on this – I’m “perfect.” I mean, look at me:

Yeah. That’s what I thought.

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