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- - - - - - - - - - R E C E N T L Y Wild Things
Bad news for G.I. Jane?
The Forgiven (Part 2)
The Forgiven (Part 1)
Time for One Thing
- - - - - - - - - - Mamafesto
| - - - - - - - - - BY ANNE LEVINE | I was still in college when my mother had her first face lift. She and my father had moved to Los Angeles that year when my father's company relocated. Maybe it was moving to the celluloid city, or maybe it was his affair a few years earlier, but for some reason she decided it was time to ditch her jowls and crow's feet and join the ranks of the lineless. At 22, I was much more interested in my life than in hers. I was in love for the first time and elated to be living on my own. When she told me she'd had a face lift, I wasn't surprised. It seemed an inevitable outcome of how she'd always lived her life. When she was younger -- working as a model in Boston, where she was born -- my mother was so beautiful that people often stopped to stare. Her entrance into any room delivered a knockout punch: She was 5-foot-10 and had big breasts and a tiny waist. She knotted her black hair in a chignon, painted her full lips crimson and would flash her startling green eyes like iridescent almonds. Her beauty brought her lots of attention from men: Doors were opened, cigarettes lit, promises made and later broken. Beauty was my mother's trump card in life, and I was not surprised that she wouldn't accept her changing face -- that she wanted time to stand still. At the end of the school year I flew to Los Angeles to visit. My mother looked different -- tighter, sleeker. Also more masklike, and even more remote. I hadn't felt close to her since my adolescence. In fact, at times I hated her. I remembered a picture of us taken at a party: She was tall, dark, unreasonably beautiful. I was gawky, pimply and miserable. I was looking at her with admiration, anger, fear -- admiration for her beauty, anger because I didn't want beauty to be the standard by which I was measured and fear that if it was, I would disappoint her. I remembered all this as I looked at my mother's transformed face. As if reading my thoughts, her only comment was: "You'll see. One day you'll be older, too." Ten years later, my mother was recovering from her second face lift. Her face was swathed in white gauze, completely hidden except for the holes that had been cut so she could see, breathe and eat. "My doctor says I'll be ready for my close-up in no time." She tried to laugh but couldn't. By then I was 32, she was 62. My father had died five years earlier and my mother was now alone, so I went to Los Angeles for a few days to help. This time, I saw everything. After her bandages were removed, her face was black and blue -- she looked like she'd gone eight rounds with Mike Tyson. Black sutures marked a border between her face and ears. A doctor friend of mine once told me how a face lift is performed: The plastic surgeon cuts skin away from both sides of the face, creating two large flaps, which are then lifted away from the underlying fat and muscle. The surgeon tightens the skin, removing any excess, and then sews everything up. I thought about this while I looked at my mother's beat-up face. I felt queasy. This time around, I was more uncomfortable. I'd seen the carnage up close. One face lift I could write off to vanity -- but two seemed desperate. I shopped for her, cooked for her, helped her bathe, made sure she was comfortable. "Aren't I just gorgeous?" she asked with a laugh, lightly touching her bruises.
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