That face in the mirror...

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own.

I'm stunned.

I stared. Stunning. Is it mine, my face? Is that me? Yes, the surgery is over, the bandages finally removed and my facelift, browlift and double blepharoplasty results are revealed. How long did I stare at the face that wasn’t yet mine but would become mine? Hours. Turn this way, that way, tilt, frown, ouch! Try to smile. No, don’t smile; I might spoil it. It’s still bruised. My left eyebrow tugs when I arch my brows. It doesn’t respond properly. It needs rest. I won’t move it again. I’ll keep it still, perfectly arched. Perfection.

I’d like to put on lipstick, but my lips are still swollen. The surgeon threaded a sinew along the edges of my upper lip. It had the double advantage of resecting an old scar where my appendix had been removed and had healed horribly. Now that wound has been restitched and I was assured it would heal neatly. The old scar tissue had been rescued, reused and integrated behind my lips. I felt concerned as they puckered in a lop-sided manner. But, full and luscious! In a week or so, I will smile like a movie star, but for now, I had best stay calm. I don’t want to risk upsetting the delicate balance of the implant.

The surgeon had recommended that I apply ice to reduce the swelling. Fortunately, the hotel room has an ice machine connected to the water dispenser so I can have cupfull’s at a time. I have to ask the maid to fetch it because I don’t want to leave my room. It’s not far, but I don’t want to risk anyone seeing me. Not yet. Wait until I’m beautiful – then gaze all you like!

Again, I look. The mirror still shows a reflection that isn’t my own. Gently I apply the healing cream so that the microdermabrasion will heal. It is so painful to touch my cheeks. They are raw-red, and I must stay out of the sun for at least two weeks. When I sit on my balcony, my chair is perched just inside my room. I daren’t go out! I sit in the shade, fearful that the sun might undo all the good work that my surgeon has wrought on my skin. I am patient. Ha! That’s funny! I was a patient, but now I am healing. Don’t smile. Don’t laugh. Don’t risk stretching the muscles, breaking stitches, creating new lines to replace the ones that he, oh so painstakingly and expensively, removed. Be still, be still my love. I am doing this for beauty.

I now have the time to sit and contemplate. It is easy to do. I close my eyes and rest and I remember. I reassemble the jigsaw of my life. From this distance, I can see how none of the pieces ever fitted properly. I had crammed and pretended. That blue, that red. Surely that event and that emotion could have gone somewhere better than where I put them? All that time wasted, trying to fit into patterns that weren’t mine. Now I know better. Now I have created my own façade and nothing can penetrate me. I am fortifying my life.

That thought gives me comfort as I sip on my soup. I still can’t chew properly, but my jawline is sharp and eventually I will emerge like a beautiful butterfly from the ugly cocoon. I will fly and amaze all those who watch me flutter by, wishing they were like me. My friends will be astounded, of course.

Unfortunately, some will let their jealousy morph into spite. Isn’t that always the way? That Shirley, she’s a fat bitch who has let herself go and her gob will sneer. She will lead the charge of the Blight Brigade. Everything withers before her. She sees no beauty. She will trample my creation with her great flat feet, shod in cheap Kmart orthopaedics. It is people like her that I must take care to avoid. Those who will mock behind my back, never realising that I am my own work of art.

Perhaps I should avoid all of them? I pick up my iPad and check out my Facebook page. I have one hundred and seventeen friends. Many of them, I’ve never even met in real life. Those are the safe ones. They admire my posts of sunsets and remember my birthday. These, yes. They are the sort of friends I need to keep. I scroll down…

My cousin hasn’t written on my page in years. Gone. Unfriended. Suddenly, I’m dizzy. There’s a light-headed relief. Have I carried the pain of association all these years just because our mothers were sisters? Mere accident of family? It’s true – I never liked you. Quickly, I scan my friends. Un-un-un-un-friend. Decimated! I am down to the True Friends. There are so few of them, but they are the True Friends. I can rely on them and their discretion. I never met them.

But I won’t tell them. I don’t want them to know. I don’t need their judgement or praise or … anything really. There’s something else I want to change. I know I can do this… but… how? I google ‘How to use an Avatar’. Quickly I am swamped with instructions and I construct my Facebook Avatar to reflect what my mirror will reflect in a few short weeks. A contoured face. Large eyes in a perfect skin with cheekbones and a chiselled jawline. Nary a droop nor wrinkle anywhere. There! It is done. I smile at myself. Ouch! I must remember not to do that.

I should show Oliver. I would like that. Hey, Oliver, over here. It’s me, you bastard. I wonder, can I find him and casually stroll past? When his eyes hungrily devour me, when he sees what he passed up, when I am forever unavailable to his lust – will that be enough? Will that be enough revenge? I try to frown, but my left eyebrow won’t cooperate. Don’t frown. Don’t frown, stay cool. Those furrows between my brow are gone and I intend to keep it that way.

Perhaps I should stay here and not confront my past. Why go back? What good would that do anyway? My neighbours are mere nods and comments on the weather. I have no commitments. My gym membership is on hold. My library card is unused – I get all my reading materials online. LinkedIn is my favourite. I read the autobiographies of the wannabies. Lies, all lies. That reminds me, I need to update my own profile.

The mirror shows a reflection of who I am becoming. But I can do better. I turn sideways and lift my sagging breasts. Just a tiny augmentation… Just an inch or two and while he’s at it, perhaps some lipo around my tummy? Not a lot, just a tiny improvement as I create the woman I so want to be.

Outside, the air is shattered by the shrieking laugh of what must be a banshee. Her very existence offends me. I move to the edge of my balcony to see who is being so rowdy and raucous and although I stay out of the sun, I am sufficiently distraught to risk a frown.

She is larking in the swimming pool with her companions. She is fat, thirties and drowning from humour. As she laughs, she bubbles under, only to be pulled up by someone who grabs her hair and then they splash-fight. She duck-dives, her flabby arse floating obscenely as she tries to submerge and fails. Fat floats, lady! You are safe, you can’t drown with all that blubber keeping you buoyant.

Drawn back inside, I reflect on the image in the mirror. I pose for my anticipated beauty, knowing that the real me is only another tiny surgery away. Outside, the awful woman shrieks as her friends tumble back into the pool. I suck in my stomach. Not long now. I am so lucky!

Her in the pool doesn’t know what she’s missing.