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.  

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