As a close watcher of the ever-changing state of spotlighted faces, and as an avid watcher of lowbrow delights such as the current series of the Aussie Bachelorette, I am frequently dismayed by the choices of young, beautiful women who think that butchering themselves into puffy, chip-monk-cheeked, frozen-faced aliens is an absolute and inalienable right.
Of course it is their right to chop off bits and pieces of themselves, or re-distribute globules of fat from their gut to their (suddenly) disgracefully flat arses any time they like. Who am I to dictate, and what is the reason I object so much to this practice of self-actualization via mutilation? It’s like a kind of freak show that keeps getting weirder. Weirder because now I’m beginning to accept that it’s just ‘what is’ nowadays – the outward manifestation of an inner lack, a lack fed by the self-replicating ideal of beauty flooding our screens and media.
My friends will attest to my long-held fascination with facial transformations. My intense desire to confirm or deny if well-known face A B or C has undergone procedure D, F or even G. And having been an expert in the field for so long, my eye and instinct are sharply honed to detect the slightest whiff of manufactured face. My specialty is the nose – the sad destruction of this most delicate and individual structure, beaten and scraped with shocking barbarity into a to a blunt-ended snub. And the more we see of this altered state of face the more we conclude it is just what we do these days – hammer our faces into long-term deformity, or slice off our skin and pump it full of loathing.
What a wonderful world we live in. Peace out man…