The Metaphorical Haircut

I have a special relationship with my nose. I have year-round allergies forcing me to carry a lifetime supply of Kleenex everywhere I go. My nose is also very sensitive to smells: smoke, perfumes, exotic foods, anything a bit out of the ordinary displeases it. When upset, my nose invariably crunches itself up and makes my eyes tear. On top of it all, it came with a small defect: a little bump on its bridge. So, on my last family vacation I thought I’d trade it in and get a new one. Apparently that’s not how it works when you get a nose job.

Not only do I have a very special finicky nose, I have a very special family. My entire family is from Curitiba, a large city in the south of the Brazil. My mother and father moved to Canada while I was still in the womb. Now, the three of us live here amid the igloos and caribou. Still, I am lucky enough to have my Canuck life interspersed with annual visits to the land of bikinis and sequins. Now, why is my family special? Well, you may have heard the statistic that Brazil is the country with the highest cosmetic surgery procedures per capita. I’d like to think my family has a direct hand in this. All of the men in my family are plastic surgeons; my uncles, my grandfather and my cousins all wield a scalpel. Actually not all, I have a cousin who is a pediatrician – he’s a bit skittish, you see.

I remember the first day of the last trip my old nose would ever make. After 24 hours spent in airports and airplanes, I climbed in an elevator with my grandfather, looking forward to a shower followed by an endless flow of aunts looking for an opportunity to pinch my cheeks over a cup of tea and some cookies.

“You know we can fix that,” my grandfather said pointing to somewhere between my eyebrows. Luckily, the elevator doors opened, leading the way out of an awkward and slightly insulting conversation.

I was always fully aware of the smallish speed bump resting on the bridge of my nose. I never liked it and often wished it disappeared. But I resigned myself to live with it right around the age of fourteen. At nineteen, I was confident enough, except for the reoccurring “I-wish-I-looked-like-Gisele-Bunchen” syndrome every woman experiences when browsing through a Victoria Secret catalogue.

Besides, surgery seemed so excessive. It was only a little bump, it didn’t do anything wrong. I also wondered if I was the surgery kind of person. I’ve always associated plastic surgery with over-the-top women like Joan Rivers - women who, if they winked, I swear to God, their toes would wiggle. But then, I imagined how my nose would look sans bump. And oh, how wonderful it would be.

Due to living in the land of cosmetic surgery, more than 80 per cent of my family has had some kind of plastic surgery done. Face lifts, tummy tucks, lipo, I suspect one chin implant, and a few dozen nose jobs. Turns out my nose bump is genetic.

I was told that if I were to go ahead with the surgery, the procedure itself would only be about an hour long: I’d go into the clinic in the morning, and I’d be home for dinner. I’d wear some nose bandages for about a week, and then I’d be free and pretty. My cousin compared it to a hair cut, “Why wouldn’t you get a good haircut if you could?” These are the words of wisdom that drove me to the operating table.

So I did it, and it wasn’t pleasant. A combination of anesthetics and loss of nose function made me feel like I had the flu. Once the bandages were off, I still didn’t look too great. There was some bruising and swelling, it took me a few more weeks to see what I’d look like for the rest of my life. Turns out I still looked like me but with a less bumpy nose. I felt as different as if I had taken a good shower; I looked the same, but I guess I felt a bit more put together.

When I returned to North America, few people noticed the change. Of course, I told all my friends, and if the subject comes up with new acquaintances, I don’t hide. I’m always amused by the shocked expression on people’s faces once they discover that my nose was tweaked with. Once, someone actually said, “What? You? But you’re so nice!” I visited a society where plastic surgery is normal; it’s a part of maintaining your appearance. In Canada you get haircuts, in Brazil you get tummy tucks. I don’t regret my decision, and am pleased with the results. I will not be going under the knife any time soon. I want to keep the essence of what I look like as is. Ok, maybe a haircut… but never a perm.

One more thing: I thought you’d like to know that giving my nose a metaphorical haircut hasn’t changed our relationship. I still sneeze and hate unfamiliar smells. Ungrateful schnoz.