A Los Angeles blog can only rightfully begin from inside a plastic surgeon’s office in Beverly Hills. And so it was one recent Thursday that I trotted up to that part of town to take advantage of a gift certificate, which came courtesy of the Hollywood Reporter’s Power 100 Women In Entertainment Breakfast, for a so-called Shiatsu facial at the office of one well-known Beverly Hills doctor who had thought to offer his bloody-nosed patients a soothing facial service on site.
Nose to nose with the beautician, I posed the million-dollar questions: “Have you ever seen a nose job where you couldn’t tell it was one?” I enquired “Can you tell mine is?” she asked, pressing her Miss Piggy-like snout within inches of mine, as I lay helpless on the table. “The only problem is that I can’t breathe,” she sighed. Indeed. She couldn’t, it seems, breath long enough to complete the offer of a one-hour facial, valued at a whopping $400, and I remembered that there was no such thing as a free lunch in this town.
And so sooner than expected I was back in the waiting room, a pristine white space filled with large princess chairs, and in a haze handed over a tip, which I later regretted. I spotted a plastic surgeon in a green outfit heading towards me and sped out on to the street determined to be the last person in town with a large nose.
On my way out, I saw lifts and corridors full of perfectly plastic faces, reflected in the building’s large mirrors, as if from a scene from a surreal horror film. Finally I appreciated the wisdom of a fellow yoga student who years ago had asked a teacher what I thought then to be a ridiculous question: “Why oh why was the energy in Beverly Hills so different to Santa Monica?” he asked that day. Finally I understood his question and couldn’t wait to get back home.
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