My name is Wai Kit. And I've had cosmetic surgery.
I know, I know. I can feel the jokes coming already:
Man, you should get a refund.
Did you offend your plastic surgeon?
Getting a brain implant isn't cosmetic surgery.
But it's true. I really did have plastic surgery.
This confession was meant to be made years ago, to reach tens of thousands of households through the magazine company I used to write for.
The story was never published, and my secret never told till this day.
Let's back up a bit.
The year was 2008.
My then-editor asked if I would like to put my head to good use for a story, and I said yes.
The assignment was simple -- test out a new technique that a certain clinic was using for hair transplant, and write about it.
And so, I gamely put my head on the chopping board -- or in this case, operating table -- for the experiment (I was told I was the first Singaporean to undergo the then-new procedure).
And since I've always been concerned about receding hairline, I thought, no harm having the doctor transplant hundreds of follicles from the back of my head to both sides of my forehead, near my hairline.
Or so I thought.
The procedure was a failure.
Within weeks of the transplant, I had a root shock - nearly half of the follicles had dropped, the way my story was headed.
And for the longest time, the surviving follicles did sprout strands of hair - except they looked really out of place on my head. The inch-long, curly strands would fit in better elsewhere - my armpits, my groin, my legs.... anywhere but my head.
But I lived with it because my real hair could cover up the streaks -- or should I say -- freaks of nature.
I recently had them all shaved away -- but only because my sponsored stylist insisted on it.
Though the plastic surgery was a flop, it came in handy during party conversations.
I even showed them once to a colleague -- just to cheer her up from a bad day at work. If I had snapped a photo of her chortling away at my hair, I would have captioned it laughing stalk.
I bring up this colourful fact of my life today partly because of Renee Zellweger -- and mainly because my friends and I recently discussed whether we would go under the knife in the name of beauty.
If we had talked about this in my 20s, I would have firmly said no (says he who just confessed he'd been through it - but hey, that's in the name of journalism, so it doesn't count).
Indeed, I once attended a media event and covered a story on plastic surgery where the door gift was -- take a deep breath -- vouchers for free botox shots.
I declined to accept any of those nonsense because I had grown to love my own face.
And I think I was made the way I am for a reason and at no point am I entitled to change that.
But now, I'm not so sure.
When Age pencils more lines across your forehead, or drains the blackness out of your hair, or randomly splashes freckles across your face as if an excitable kid had just gained access to a calligraphy paintbrush, principles can change.
And so I found myself toying with the idea of plastic surgery.
I started by exploring the idea of eyebrow embroidery ($2,000 which can last you two years -- thanks Karen for the info). I've always lamented that I have thin eyebrows anyway.
And since my Indian godparents used to say I've got a flat Chinese nose, it wouldn't hurt to have its bridge raised a bit.
Oh, and double eyelids would certainly stop all the I-can't-see-your-eyes-when-you're-laughing jokes.
Perhaps, skin lift would be good too.
And while I'm at it - why not go all out and throw in botox shots, tummy tuck, jaw reshaping and even breast enhancement if it comes as a freebie?
Okay, you get the idea.
Plastic surgery can be addictive -- even when you're merely writing about it.
But I'm glad I'm making myself go through this mental checklist because this exercise has given me new insights.
10 years ago, I would have frowned at myself until the creases of my wrinkles are capable of crushing ants to death.
But today, my principles and views have changed.
Partly because, between my 20s and my mid-30s, I've grown (and aged).
I've become more open. More critical. More suspicious. More careful. I question more, and ponder upon issues more frequently.
I admit I surprised myself with my newfound back-paddling view on plastic surgery.
Yet, I'm heartened to know that I will never be a stubborn old fool who refuses to change with time (and age).
So, who knows.
Maybe I'll go for another hair transplant.
Or fix those thin eyebrows.
Whatever it is, I'll get them done guiltlessly.
Because while Age has given gravity permission to work on sagging my body parts -- or allowed the sun to make beef jerky out of my skin, it's also added wisdom and new insights as a form of compensation.
I guess that's the beauty of it.
