I'm not a big believer in plastic surgery. Unlike my partner.
He LOVES plastic surgery, even though he's years away from even considering it. His favorite show of all time was a short lived reality show,"The Swan", that plucked two butt-ugly women from across the country, subjected them to months of excruciating cosmetic procedures and then made them face off in a beauty pageant duel. Even I have to admit it was nothing short of awesome.
My problem with plastic surgery is there's just so many bad results running around, even here in Bako. I always assumed the goal was to shave a year or ten off your age, not look like an inflatable pool toy. And fame and fortune are no guarantee you won't look like you were pressed out of a mold. Just look at Meg Ryan and Mickey Rourke - she now looks like Howard the Duck and he looks vaguely Asian. And shiny.
But occasionally special cases crop up that really cry out for some cosmetic attention,and I came upon one such case just the other day.
Roz.
It pains me to say this, but she looks haggard.
Merle Haggard.
I'd never gotten closer than maybe 50 feet to her. But as I was walking the dogs near her condo the other day, I rounded the corner and suddenly found myself face to face with her.
And it wasn't pretty.
After a certain age, distance is your friend, and in her case it's her Best Friend Forever. She was still rocking the poodle doo and wearing some ridiculous outfit that involved leggings and a duster, but I hardly noticed. My attention was riveted on her face. Her tanned, leathery skin was deeply creased and it looked like her jowls had jowls. All those years as a groupie had taken their toll and she looked "rode hard", as they say. I began to think all the 80's fashions were less of a statement and more of a distraction to divert attention away from the fact she looked like a dried apple head doll.
If anyone every cried out for a cosmetic intervention, it was Roz. But I fear there isn't enough Botox in the world to even make a dent in her dents. That woman requires some massive heavy lifting, the kind usually reserved for burn victims. I have to admit I was a little stunned. I'd only ever really seen her in motion, tooling around the neighborhood behind the wheel of her badass Vette, exuding a certain cougarish joie de vivre. But in reality she was Grandma Walton.
That wasn't the only illusion that was shattered that afternoon. She'd backed the Vette out and I got a good look at Lil' Roz too. Perched on the dash she looked threadbare and worn, like she'd been plucked from the dump. And her little Fender guitar was nothing more than cardboard covered with tin foil.
I was crushed.
I wish I could take it all back, that I hadn't seen what I'd seen.
If only I'd left the house five minutes later.
