The Best Time Someone Complimented My Nose
Boss, running in to restock the requisite lotion and papertowels: Is that your real nose?
Me: Yeah
Boss: Really? Huh. I would’ve sworn you paid for it.
Doing sex work has giving me a new respect for plastic surgery, one that my feminism is currently complicating and working through. In some sense, I respect any guy or gal’s decision to help her make scrilla in the way she sees fit and move in the world in the way she feels comfortable. I respect someone’s right to plastic surgery for aesthetic purposes (and, let’s be real, aesthetic decisions exist in culture not in some classical vacuum of spiritual beauty) the same way I respect a transperson’s decision to have or not have surgery. Without equating the two, and without supporting the overall culture of batshit beauty standards and crazy gender binaries, I can recognize both decisions as being a choice that make economic and lived relations a lot easier and simpler in the sense of moving through the world, making a living, and as a form of self-validation and determination in a world that is pretty imperfect.
