I’ve tried to stay away from plastic surgery reality shows over the years. I’m not squeamish about the bloody stuff, or the inevitable moment when the surgeon either shoves in or pulls out a quivering, organ-like bag of silicon from a gaping hole of mangled human flesh (actually, I kind of like that part). But I’m not a fan of the homogenized brand of beauty these shows tend to peddle, or the way the a female patient, unencumbered by price tags (all expenses being taken care of by the production company, naturally) winds up signing up for way more than she came in for. Hate that bump on your nose? It’ll look so much better if you also get a chin implant, and then some big plump cheeks to even that out… And you could really use an eyebrow lift, and how do you feel about your breasts and stomach?
There’s something profoundly disturbing to me about upselling someone on their own body, as well as the taut Stepford Wife faces and swelling Barbie bust-lines that such shows like Extreme Makeover, or the one-season abomination The Swan, which still haunts my nightmares, tend to produce. It’s the same reason I’ve never much cared for fashion makeover shows like What Not To Wear–you go in a normal human being with your own taste and sense of style, however questionable, and you come out with the same layered highlights and the same jewel-toned wrap dress they put on everybody else. It’s creepy.
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