The Model Clinic

It’s going to be a long wait, thought the receptionist, looking at the waiting room full of people. Only Doctor Ahmet was in this morning, and after the first patient who’d just gone into the consultation room, it was difficult to say how long he would be. The doctor was already running late, so these poor people were in for a heck of a wait. They were hardly poor, really. More money than sense. That’s what Isabelle said whenever people asked her about the patients at the clinic. Well, they weren’t exactly patients. It wasn’t a typical clinic. And Doctor Ahmet wasn’t an average doctor.

    There wasn’t much more for Isabelle to do. She’d registered everyone on the system, briefly explained the consultation process (Doctor Ahmet would go through everything in more detail) and showed them were the drinks machine was. She scanned the waiting room. She could usually tell what each person was in for. In fact, she’d become quite good at diagnosing them. Face-lift. Liposuction. Boob job. Skin lightening .Nose job. Hair replacement. If only all conditions were so straight forward to diagnose. I could be wrong. There might be something else wrong with them.

*****

The waiting room at the clinic was sophisticated yet cosy-looking, with its pastel peach walls and brass wall lamps. Photos of beautiful people were mounted proudly on the walls. The aroma of sweet pot pourri mixed with the smoky bitterness of coffee filled the room. How different this was from a normal hospital, with its non-descript cold white walls, the stench of disinfectant with undertones of urine and posters highlighting symptoms of deadly diseases.

    Six women waited…

    Sharon was the first to venture up to get a drink. She was the oldest person there but also most stylish and well-dressed. She seemed familiar with the place from the way she’d spread out her belongings on the sofa-style chairs and plugged her phone charger into a socket above the magazine table. Not her first time, observed the others.

    “Anyone like a drink?” she asked, like she was getting a round in at the pub.

    “I’ll come and grab one,” replied Christina.

    The two women got their drinks and then sat back down.

    “Have you been here before?” asked Christina. What kinds of questions are appropriate in a place like this?

    “Yes, a couple of times,” replied Sharon. She knew what the others must be wondering. What’s she here for? She felt their eyes on her, scrutinising her closely, searching for her flaws. There are plenty of things to find wrong with me, especially at my age. She felt her back ache from sitting down. The bunions on her feet were hurting too. The joys of getting old! “Doctor Ahmet’s going have a look at my wrinkles. I had a face lift a couple of years ago but my eyes are beginning to sag again. My smile lines are getting deeper too.” She fake smiled and pointed to her mouth area to show what she meant.

    “Your face looks great, for…!” said Christina. She was going to add, for your age, but didn’t.     

    Sharon finished her sentence for her. “For my age.” She smiled. She didn’t want to look great for her age. She wanted to look great full-stop, like she did when she was young. Her looks had been everything. She picked up a glossy brochure advertising the chain of cosmetic surgery clinics. She looked at the beautiful woman on the front cover. There were photos of that model on the walls too.

She thought back to her days as a dancer. She, too, had a photogenic face and a figure to die for. She had been both talented and versatile in her art so she’d never been short of work as a dancer. Or of male interest. But she’d been too busy for romance. She was making good money and she was living the high life. She’d managed to stay in the dance industry longer than most. Yet, it came at a price and she was paying for it now. She'd sacrificed having a family because she didn’t want to lose her figure. She’d desperately clung on to her looks. And she had been successful to an extent, thanks to her good genes, but the effects of aging were inevitable. The onset of time could not be stopped. She summed up the costs. No husband, no children, no grandchildren. They were greater than the cost of a face-lift.

    Christina looked apprehensive.

    “They can work wonders here. You'll see.” Sharon sounded reassuring.

    “Hope so.”

    It was now Sharon’s turn to scrutinise Christina. Unwritten rule: never ask why they’re here. Clinic etiquette.

    “I want to get liposuction. I put on so much weight after having children. I just can’t seem to lose the pounds. I just want to feel like my old self again. Not like a fat, frumpy lump.”

    Sadness swept through Christina, leaving her feeling dejected. She loved her two beautiful girls, of course she did. She wouldn’t swap them for anything. Yet she’d never thought that she would lose so much of herself by having them. Taking on the role of mum had meant sacrificing her identity as Christina. Physically. Emotionally. Socially. Even financially.

    Did Luke feel like this after becoming a dad? Probably not. He still did the same things as before. He didn’t have to give up his job and put his career on hold indefinitely. He didn’t have to stop doing things that he enjoyed like going to the gym or seeing his mates down the pub on a Friday night or going to football on a Saturday. He hadn’t piled on so much weight that he didn’t even recognise himself when he looked in the mirror.

    When he looked at her, did he see her as the same Christina that he’d fallen in love with and married just over seven years ago? Of course, I still love you. You’re still my girl! But she wasn’t, not the same girl anyway. He couldn’t keep his hands off that girl. He couldn’t take his eyes off that girl. Now she only let him see her with the lights off. Maybe that’s why he looked at other women. Women who embraced themselves fully and oozed sexiness from head to toe, like the model with the amazing body in the photos on the walls. Sometimes he noticed that she’d seen him looking at them, and sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he was just too engrossed by them. But she always noticed. And she always lost a little bit more of herself.

    “I know I’m probably being silly. I shouldn’t be complaining, really. I should be grateful for what I’ve got,” said Christina, trying to justify her feelings.

   “You’re not being silly at all. You have a right to feel like and look like you. There’s nothing silly about that,” said Sharon. “Wanting that for yourself doesn’t mean that you’re ungrateful for what you already have.”

    Kimberley looked up every now and again from whatever she was doing on her phone. She looked enviously at Christina. She looks so womanly! Even the old lady looks better than me! “I don’t want to butt in, but you look great, like a real woman. I wish I had your curves! That’s why I want to get breast implants. I’m sick of looking like a twelve year old girl.”

    “You’ve got a fantastic figure! You look so toned and in great shape.”

    “Hmmm…” Yes, Kimberly was in shape, though more athletic than feminine. Over the years she’d worked out excessively at the gym. Just like overweight people overeat to numb the pain of being overweight, Kimberley worked out to tone her lean body even more. The slender curve of her waist had diminished as muscle built around her midriff. The fat around her hips had disappeared leaving her looking straight and instead of voluptuous in that part of her body. Her shoulders had become broader and more masculine and her biceps were going from finely toned to bulgingly muscular. She seemed to be filling out in the wrong places. “Yeah, I work out a lot. But I don’t look like this.” She pointed to the model on a brochure advertising the clinic. “Look how she’s filling that dress in all the right places.” Her breasts were perfectly formed to carry and complement any garment effortlessly. She really was the ultimate image of feminine perfection.

    “Those images are usually photoshopped. No one looks that amazing in reality,” said Shreya, sinking into herself slightly.

    “Yeah, I suppose so. Still, they don’t stop you feeling depressed though, do they?” said Kimberley.

    “They can only slim you down so much. Some bulges are just too much!” joked Christina.

    “And there are only so many wrinkles they can iron out!” laughed Sharon.

    Shreya looked at her arms and hands, and down at her legs. Could they photoshop the colour of her skin? She looked at the model on the cover of the brochure that Sharon was browsing through. The model’s skin looked as smooth as silk and the colour of honey glazed ivory. She seemed to be glowing, as if she was lit from within with candles. “I want to get skin lightening treatment.”

    “But you’ve got lovely skin! It’s so rich and deep!” complemented Kimberley.

    You mean it’s dark! Dark and ugly! Shreya thought about all those comments. She could hear the jibes in her head from ever since she could remember. The worst taunts of all were the ones from her own family. Even her own parents hadn’t felt the need to hold back. Dark as coal. Ugly as hell. In her culture, a woman’s worth and destiny were determined by the colour of her skin. The lighter the skin, the more fortunate the woman. The darker the skin, the more unfortunate she was. Shreya was as dark as they came. And since her skin was the all-encompassing organ of her whole body, Shreya essentially hated herself. “I hate my skin colour.”

    “You’ve got a beautiful complexion. It’s so clear and flawless,” said Sharon.

    “And you’re not even wearing any makeup, are you?” added Christina.

    Shreya shook her head. It didn’t matter that her skin was flawless in texture and that she had a perfectly even skin tone. The bottom line was that her skin was dark, and that meant it was ugly, that she was ugly. Yet, Sharon’s words were the first time that anyone had ever said anything vaguely complimentary about her appearance. She felt flattered. She almost felt like crying. “It’s just that it’s my whole skin, everywhere on my body. It’s impossible to cover it up in anyway.”

    “Like a massive nose!” interrupted Sarah. She ran her fingers down her nose, as if to remind herself just how big it actually was. “I feel like wearing a mask some days. I’ve finally got enough money to get a nose job.”

    Everyone looked at Sarah, and paid a little more attention to her nose.

    “To be honest, I hadn’t really noticed your nose, until you mentioned,” said Shreya. “It’s really not that big.”

    How could you not notice it? And, yes, it really is that big! “Thanks, but you don’t have to be so polite.”

    “I’m not. Honestly.”

    It was impossible not to notice how prominent her nose was. It was the first thing that Sarah saw every time she looked in the mirror. In fact, it was the only thing she saw. It was like her nose was coming at her from the mirror in 3D and she was repulsed by it. To make it worse, it was covered in acne scars from when she was a teenager and huge open pores that seeped sebum. She looked up at a photo on the wall. It was a head and shoulders shot of the model. Her face looked like it had been intricately carved to precision using a chisel. No single feature, like a huge nose, dominated her face but everything worked harmoniously to create a visual masterpiece.

    Sarah ran her fingers over her most-hated feature once more. It commanded all of her attention without her knowing it, and in doing so it drew everyone else’s attention to it as well, and highlighted her insecurity about it. How could she not feel insecure about it? It was long and it hooked starkly at the bridge, and widened out into flaring nostrils. She remembered what a kid from her school had said to her years ago when she’d been out ‘trick or treating’ dressed as a witch on Halloween. You look like a real witch, especially with that long, crooked nose! Until then, she hadn’t believed witches to be real. But when she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, she was convinced that they were in fact real. From then on she was nicknamed the witch and every day for her was Halloween.

    “Maybe it’s not that big. It probably wouldn’t be such a big deal for someone with more self-confidence but, for me, it’s my nemesis. I absolutely hate it!”

    The others nodded and smiled, not sympathetically but empathetically. They didn’t feel sorry for Sarah, instead they understood completely how she felt. They comprehended how one aspect, one self-loathing aspect, can take over you and make you hate yourself from the outside in.

    “If you are able to do something to make things feel more bearable then you should, that’s what I say,” said Chloe. She adjusted her bandana. She used to do this when she had some hair that needed constant tucking under the fabric. Now she did it out of habit since she had very little hair left, and she’d cut short whatever hair she had left on her head. “I want to try hair transplant.” 

    Everyone looked at Chloe. The bandana made sense now. So she wasn’t a cancer patient who’d lost her hair through aggressive treatment.

    “Why? Has your hair fallen out?” asked Sarah, feeling a bit stupid for asking such a question.

    “My hair starting falling out about ten years ago, around about the time I started university. I used to have really thick hair. At first, I thought I was just moulting but then it started to fall out in handfuls. Over time, it’s just got thinner and thinner.”

    Chloe glanced at one of the photos. The model seemed to be flaunting her hair at Chloe. Her locks looked like deep molten chocolate flowing all the way down to her elbows. She remembered the mane of long, thick black hair that she used to have. Washing and drying and styling it was a chore. Please, mum, can I just have it cut short? The answer was always no. How could she possibly think about cutting off that luscious hair? Her mum finally gave in when Sarah was thirteen. She’d got her hair cut the very next day. Now she wanted it to grow back from practically nothing. She’d tried vitamin tablets and hair supplements and hair regrowth oils and concoctions but nothing made a difference. A hair transplant was her last resort at regaining a headful of hair and restoring her femininity.

    “Well, they can work wonders here. You could have hair sprouting like grass in weeks!” Sharon was encouraging.

    “Anyway, that bandana really suits you. You can totally pull it off!” said Christina.

    “You know, some women choose to shave their hair off. You could start a trend!” suggested Shreya.

    Chloe let out a little laugh. “Yeah, I could. I’m not sure it would catch on though.”

    The other women smiled at Chloe and at each other.

    So, here they were, six women with different circumstances, from different backgrounds and dealing with different issues. They’d come here to find a solution for something that had eaten away at their confidence and diminished their sense of identity. Through each other’s stories of insecurities they somehow understood their own anxieties a little better. They were more accepting of them. If the doctors here could make them look a little bit like the beautiful model in the photos then great. No one could criticise them for that.

*****

Isabelle sat behind her receptionist’s desk. She could hear the general conversation going on between the women in the waiting room. She pretended not to listen, and preoccupied herself by appearing to do something productive on her computer. In actual fact, she was on her phone getting up to date with whatever was new on her social media. She looked at the time. Surely, it won’t be much longer now. She’s been in there for ages!

    At exactly that moment, the door to Doctor Ahmet’s consultation room opened. The patient, or client rather, thanked the doctor and came to settle her bill at the reception desk. The women looked at her. They observed her, and felt overwhelmed by her. She was gorgeous! Why would someone like her need to come to a place like this? Isabelle felt a bit awkward and kept her face down. She had to be discreet. Client confidentiality was crucial. Only she, and Doctor Ahmet, knew that this client was a regular at the clinic and her custom was much appreciated. Isabelle lifted her eyes just enough to see if the women in the waiting room would notice.

    The women enviously admired every aspect this woman.

    What a perfectly chiselled face!

    What an amazing figure!

    What fantastic boobs!

    What glowingly golden skin!

    What a cute little nose!

    What lusciously long hair!                                          

    Naturally, each woman focussed on the feature that caused her the most discontent in her own body. They were taken aback for a few moments as they gazed at her in awe. This model-like stranger looked strangely familiar. Then, as if all at once, the realisation dawned on them each of them: this oppressively attractive woman was the model in the photos on the walls!