If you read the paper, glance at your phone or check out Facebook you won’t be able to miss what Kim, Gwynnie and Katie are up to. Their plastic surgery antics fill column inches as tightly as their underwiring. So much to worry about, so little time. Are you an innie or an outie? Is your lady-garden selfie fit? What about your earlobes? Too droopy, too pixie or just over stretched? Mirror mirror on the wall, what’s the most far-fetched procedure of them all? Quick while I filter my photos!
Perhaps all that leaves you cold but nevertheless there’s a niggle at the back of your mind. All that breast-feeding has been the death of pertness. And don’t mention the eyebags. Where to begin? What is sensible and what’s just silly? As the late, great Nora Ephron said: ‘In my sex fantasy no one ever loved me for my mind’.
So lean in, cos here’s the truth: I’m actually too embarrassed to go to a plastic surgeon. I mean where would I start? What to say? I can’t exactly walk in and get my boobs out. I’ve got scars that make the A-Z look simple. I don’t even let anyone look in my fridge, let alone inside my drawers. I’d pull myself together if only everything hadn’t spread so.
In case you’re wondering, surgeons don’t talk in euphemisms. They don’t fanny about or beat about the bush. There’ll be no coy references, no nudge nudge wink wink. What you will get is a clear and honest appraisal that’s not the least embarrassing, in language that you can understand but doesn’t make you blush. They will put you at ease and take time to understand your concerns. You can get down to basics and ask the difficult questions. It can be a relief to talk about what’s worrying you. They’ve heard it all before and can put your mind at rest, and you can always come back another day if you need time to think. What’s not to like?