It was only seven months of my life, but a year on I still find myself unsettled by the experience of working for a plastic surgeon.
We were a strange alliance from the outset – a midlife career change had left me with few employment options, and I’m certain my naturally lined face was not in keeping with his clinic’s aesthetic. But I had a background in digital marketing, and this plastic surgeon wanted in on the action online.
Snapchat, Instagram and Facebook were giving audiences unprecedented access to the world of plastic surgery. We could watch surgeons operating in real time, see before and after shots of their patients, and if we were lucky get a sneak peek into the private lives of these scalpel-wielding denizens of the OR.
In truth, when I applied for the job I knew little about plastic surgery. It seemed obvious that the rise of the selfie, the ubiquity of celebrity culture, and the explosion of social media in general were driving us to obsess over our looks like never before. I was intrigued, however, as to how this would translate into marketing strategy.
As I scrolled through the Instagram and Facebook feeds of some of Sydney’s most prominent plastic surgeons, I was inundated with photos of breasts and cleavage. The sales tactics turned out to be relatively simple: post highly sexualised images of your patients showcasing their newly acquired breast implants – on the beach, in bed, at the gym, or in the shower.
What struck me was the uniformity of the breasts and bodies. This was no celebration of the diversity of the female shape, this was a fetishisation of one particular body type – big breasted, long limbed, cellulite free perfection. The sort obtained with the help of a surgeon’s scalpel; a fact not lost, but rather reinforced by the use of hashtags.
I couldn’t help but wonder if our feminist foremothers had fought for this?
So I tried to take an ethical approach to this plastic surgeon’s social media presence. I wanted his feeds to be genuinely informative, and his brand, amid questionable industry standards, to be synonymous with safety.
It didn’t take me long to realise I wasn’t selling a Volvo. While the sensationalist Instagram feeds were attracting thousands of likes, the feeds I was curating were languishing.
All too soon, I found myself posting images of toned butts and tummies and asking our followers whether they had “stubborn diet and exercise-resistant fat”. Hint, hint, nudge nudge, liposuction may be the answer. One day I was told the “thigh gap” was “in” and I should “do a post on that”; as though having fat suctioned from an inner thigh was akin to buying the latest fashion accessory.
I was now complicit in an industry built on the exploitation of people’s insecurities. As feelings of guilt surfaced, I tuned into the stories and emotional states of our patients. Many had booked in for surgical procedures following a breakup, divorce or retrenchment; and a good many more were on medication for depression and anxiety.
Although I have no qualifications in mental health, it wasn’t hard to sense some of our patients were more in need of emotional care than expensive and painful body altering surgery. I thought of the psychological questionnaire we required patients to fill out on arrival. Who looked at it? What purpose did it serve if we were operating on mentally fragile patients? Did anyone care?
Still, I watched as one patient sold her car to pay for breast augmentation surgery, and others reached into superannuation funds, or took out expensive lines of credit to pay for procedures they could ill afford.
Six months into my contract I was called into the plastic surgeon’s office, and asked whether I truly believed in the “product”. I wondered what I would have to do to prove it. I knew in that moment it was time to leave.
Despite the job being a poor personal fit, I’m not categorically against cosmetic surgery. I am, however, deeply troubled by some of the sales tactics being used within the industry, as well as a lack of adequate preoperative screening procedures.
For those of you considering surgery for cosmetic reasons, I urge you to make sure it’s at the right time of life and for the right reasons. Don’t shy away from a session with a psychologist or a counsellor to discuss your motivations and expectations. If you have an underlying mental health condition plastic surgery will not fix it, but ongoing therapy just might.
• Jacqui Carter is a freelance writer based in Sydney
