Lee Randall: Snout wrong with a new nose even if you picked it yourself

Published on Tuesday 17 August 2010 20:00

ONE OF the central plot points of Tamara Drewe, the Posy Simmonds' graphic novel that is about to be released as a film, is the eponymous character's nose job. It's a classic "But Miss Jones! You're beautiful!" moment, for afterwards, well, afterwards, she's Gemma Arterton.

In the film, Drewe tells her awestruck home town that fixing her nose is the best thing she's ever done for herself. Watching a preview all by my lonesome at the Cameo (I know! Get me!), I could hear my chuckle echo around the vast auditorium. I've said the same thing quite often myself, as well as: "Best money I ever spent."

We can argue endlessly about whether plastic surgery is a gift to humanity, or the work of the devil, but we all know that the answer – as is the case with so many things in this crazy life – is that it's both. The surgical procedures themselves are a marvel of creativity, technology, and physical dexterity. The impulse to have surgery, however, can take us to the dark side.

In my case, the honker didn't function properly. My septum was so deviated that, as the surgeon tilted my head back to inspect it, he asked, "Can you suck any air up that thing?" Not much, I admitted.

Nor was it decorative. It wouldn't frighten the horses, by any means, and I have no quarrel with a large nose, but it was an unpleasant shape.

And I knew that it would only get worse, because the cartilage in your nose shrinks as you age. The lumpy blob on the end of mine – where normal noses have a proper tip – would grow more pronounced with each passing year. This prompted me to take action, and a sizeable loan from my dad.

Being 30 at the time, I also realised I was never going to be a stick insect with a killer figure. Assessing my "opposite sex appeal" with all the objectivity I could muster, I calculated that men could only be asked to overlook one flaw at a time. Knowing I'd never be a skelf, I reckoned the nose was a "defect" too far. (I opted not to contemplate the hurdles my strong personality would throw up.) In the long run, I made the right decision. Yes it was painful, especially when I woke up during the operation – I kid you not – while they were doing something gruesome and excruciating with a file.

The convalescence period was trying, too, for it required a great leap of faith to trust that the giant, swollen growth spread from one ear to the other would ever narrow down to an acceptable size and shape.

Sadly, I didn't wake up transformed into Gemma Arterton. More's the pity.

Nor was I rendered unrecognisable. That was the problem the actress Jennifer Grey encountered. All her Dirty Dancing fans waltzed straight past her and her renovated nose for years and years. Job offers slowed to a trickle. In a charmingly self-referential move, she tried to solve the dilemma by starring in a sitcom about an actress who has a nose job that renders her unrecognisable. Audiences avoided it like the plague and the show died a death.

I have no regrets about going under the knife (and file). This nose is better aesthetically and operationally. It has made a noticeable improvement to my self confidence these 20 years, though I realise in saying so I'm stretching the credulity of readers familiar with my wails of anguish on that score.

I did the right thing, but did I do it for the right reasons? At one point in her Fringe show, Storm Large says, "I thought if I could get him to love me, I'd be worth something."

That "ouch" was the sound of a nail complaining about being hit on the head.

I'm all in favour of self-improvement, but I also know that I had surgery so that I could love myself and in the hope of being loved by someone else. I'm not ashamed of that fact – why not give myself every advantage – but I wonder if it's not the teensiest bit pathetic?