The doctor places the clear plastic mask over my nose and mouth. I hear the hiss of the gas and get out my phone. I’m not wearing makeup, but my skin is glowy AF and my hair is sleek and shiny. Not a bad “before.” I ask the doctor to bend down for a selfie— “Get in here!” He’s older but in a silver fox kind of way. I caption it “say goodbye to the old me” and throw in a sparkle emoji.
I’m the first semi-public figure (100k followers) to undergo this procedure. I used to be a try-anything beauty writer, one of those girls who do the extreme celebrity diets, the facials that take your skin off, who write the kind of “I tried this for a week, and it changed my life!” clickbait pieces. After two years of making pennies per word, I realized I could do better on my own.
The trick to success as an influencer is making everyone who follows you feel that they matter in your life. I’m good at that. I take them with me—involve them in my decisions, make them feel needed. And this is my biggest stunt yet. My agent told me that to get to the next level, where the real money and the big sponsorships are, I need to be prettier. So, here I am. I’ve made the whole thing interactive, too. I’m going to be the internet’s first-ever live character build. My engagement levels have skyrocketed.
They’ve picked: strong cheekbones, Middle Eastern complexion, turquoise eyes, small nose, pouty rose-colored lips, inch-long lashes, and medium-thick brows. The mock-up is gorgeous.
I come out of the anesthesia-induced coma aching and numb. I can’t feel my face, but behind it, my nerve endings are realizing that they should be screaming. I touch my new cheek. Nothing at first, and then a dull throb that rockets up my skull behind my eyes. Dr. Janus warned me about pain. “This is the most invasive surgery I’ve performed on a healthy person,” he’d said during our consultation. “It’s going to hurt, probably for a while.”
A nurse hears me moan and approaches the bed. “Can I get some pain—” She gets a glimpse of me, screams, and runs from the room. I guess there must be some residual blood.
Fine. I grit my teeth and go to work, opening an app on my phone and pressing the red record button. I gasp when I see myself for the first time. It’s perfect, I think, and then I catch myself. I’m perfect. The creature before me on the screen is enchantingly, surreally beautiful. I post a flirty video of me mouthing along to the current #1 song, even though moving my newly enlarged lips that much is fucking painful. I check my numbers. The pre-op photo already has 300 thousand views.
Dr. Janus returns. He places two pills and a glass of water on the operating tray and clears his throat. “Everything went smoothly. You should make a full recovery in three to four weeks. I will warn you, though, it may take some getting used to. This is an entirely new frontier we’re crossing—a new era in aesthetics. Perfection can be a bit jarring, at first.”
I think of the nurse. “May I see it?” I ask. He hands me a mirror.
On my phone, with my normal filters, the face belongs to a goddess. But in Janus’ mirror and the clinical light of the operating room, the absolute symmetry and, especially, the unnaturally brilliant blue eyes—it doesn’t look real. It doesn’t look human, more like some kind of robot sex doll. I take the pills and check my numbers. The video is threatening to go viral.
I’m perfect.
I’m shaking so bad I drop the mirror.
I’m perfect.
A tear slides down my unfeeling cheek.
I’m perfect.