Yes, I’ve had one. No I don’t regret it.
These are the first words that come out of my mouth when the waterfall of questions begins. That waterfall is quite rare, though; I don’t tell people about my elective surgery. Even my father-in-law doesn’t know; I can only imagine his horror.
My mother says my nose was perfect, petite and cute– until I hit puberty. She kept her fingers crossed that I wouldn’t inherit her nose but nature was unkind. By age fifteen, I had a sniffer so hooked, I could graze it simply by sticking out my tongue. This unfortunate facial detail was so powerful, it singlehandedly tempered my boisterous personality and outgoing character. I avoided pictures; I wore my hair in front of my face; I loved hats.
A week before my fifteenth birthday, I walked into the kitchen and stood in front of my parents as they read the morning paper: “I want it. I want that nose job.” Instead of the gasps I expected, they looked at each other and nodded their heads.