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Authors: Hilary Freeman
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giving her my arm is a lot easier than trying
to correct our misunderstanding. She attaches a black cuff to my arm and plugs a wire into it. The other end is attached to a little machine. Then she presses a button on the machine and the cuff
begins to squeeze my arm, tighter and tighter. It grips so hard that it hurts. Still, this must be less painful than having bits of my nose shaved off.
‘Good,’ she says, approvingly, and the air deflates from the cuff, freeing my arm. I rub it. ‘So have you thought about what you’d like to try?’
‘The thing is . . . I, er, I don’t . . . want . . . the pill or, er, any of them,’ I manage to say. ‘I’m actually here about an operation.’
‘An operation ? Isn’t that a little drastic?’
‘Yes, maybe it is. But, um, I don’t think there’s any other way to make my nose smaller. You know – they can shave a bit off, so it’s straighter and not so
beaky.’
Dr Buttery’s face changes. The serious look disappears, then, as if she’s unable to stop herself, she starts chortling. She might even be choking. ‘Sky,’ she begins, when
she can finally form some words, ‘tell me again, what exactly are we talking about here?’
I feel suddenly self-conscious. I don’t like drawing attention to my problem. ‘My nose, of course. I was trying to tell you, but . . .’
‘Your nose ?’ She can hardly breathe for laughing. It feels like she’s laughing at my nose, even though I know she isn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever seen
her laugh before, so this is really quite unnerving. She’s shaking so much I think she’s going to fall off her chair. ‘I thought . . . I thought . . . that you wanted
contraceptive advice.’
I cringe again. ‘I know you did! God, no! I don’t! No way! I’m here because I want a nose job. A rhino-wotsit. You know.’
‘I’m so sorry, Sky,’ says Dr Buttery, clearing her throat. ‘I just assumed. From what you said. I never actually asked, did I? That’s terribly unprofessional of me.
Right, your nose.’ Another giggle escapes. She clears her throat again.
‘It’s not funny,’ I say. I feel like crying. ‘My nose isn’t funny. It’s deformed. Hideous.’
Dr Buttery finally seems to get a grip on herself. She stares at me, her eyes flickering as she scans my face from top to bottom. ‘Sky, dear, there’s really nothing wrong with your
nose. It’s a perfectly normal nose.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s ugly and huge and wonky, and I want rid of it.’
‘Really, it’s in perfect proportion. It suits your face.’
‘That’s what everyone says. To make me feel better. I thought at least a doctor would be honest.’
She sighs. ‘I really don’t see how I can help you, Sky. Can you breathe through it OK?’
I nod. My eyes are brimming with tears.
‘Has it been broken in an accident?’
I shake my head.
‘Then really, Sky, there’s nothing I can do for you. You don’t need surgery. Your mum is right: give yourself time to get used to it. Wait a few years. You can make a decision
when you’re older. But, until then, no reputable surgeon will touch your nose. You’re still growing, after all. It will probably be fully grown by the time you’re sixteen,
seventeen, or so.’
STILL GROWING? STILL GROWING! No way! So my nose is going to grow even bigger? I’ve got to wait until it’s even larger? How much larger? That’s the worst possible
thing she could have told me. Ever.
‘O-Oh,’ I stutter.
‘We could chat about counselling if you’d like. Maybe you’d like to talk to someone about how you feel. It seems to me that the problem is in your head.’
My problem isn’t in my head, it’s on my head! ‘I don’t want counselling, I want a new nose,’ I say. I get up and grab my jacket so fast that my chair
tips back. Dr Buttery catches it.
‘Sky . . .’ she begins. ‘Let’s talk about this. Stop . . .’ But I’ve already closed the door behind me and fled into the
to correct our misunderstanding. She attaches a black cuff to my arm and plugs a wire into it. The other end is attached to a little machine. Then she presses a button on the machine and the cuff
begins to squeeze my arm, tighter and tighter. It grips so hard that it hurts. Still, this must be less painful than having bits of my nose shaved off.
‘Good,’ she says, approvingly, and the air deflates from the cuff, freeing my arm. I rub it. ‘So have you thought about what you’d like to try?’
‘The thing is . . . I, er, I don’t . . . want . . . the pill or, er, any of them,’ I manage to say. ‘I’m actually here about an operation.’
‘An operation ? Isn’t that a little drastic?’
‘Yes, maybe it is. But, um, I don’t think there’s any other way to make my nose smaller. You know – they can shave a bit off, so it’s straighter and not so
beaky.’
Dr Buttery’s face changes. The serious look disappears, then, as if she’s unable to stop herself, she starts chortling. She might even be choking. ‘Sky,’ she begins, when
she can finally form some words, ‘tell me again, what exactly are we talking about here?’
I feel suddenly self-conscious. I don’t like drawing attention to my problem. ‘My nose, of course. I was trying to tell you, but . . .’
‘Your nose ?’ She can hardly breathe for laughing. It feels like she’s laughing at my nose, even though I know she isn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever seen
her laugh before, so this is really quite unnerving. She’s shaking so much I think she’s going to fall off her chair. ‘I thought . . . I thought . . . that you wanted
contraceptive advice.’
I cringe again. ‘I know you did! God, no! I don’t! No way! I’m here because I want a nose job. A rhino-wotsit. You know.’
‘I’m so sorry, Sky,’ says Dr Buttery, clearing her throat. ‘I just assumed. From what you said. I never actually asked, did I? That’s terribly unprofessional of me.
Right, your nose.’ Another giggle escapes. She clears her throat again.
‘It’s not funny,’ I say. I feel like crying. ‘My nose isn’t funny. It’s deformed. Hideous.’
Dr Buttery finally seems to get a grip on herself. She stares at me, her eyes flickering as she scans my face from top to bottom. ‘Sky, dear, there’s really nothing wrong with your
nose. It’s a perfectly normal nose.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s ugly and huge and wonky, and I want rid of it.’
‘Really, it’s in perfect proportion. It suits your face.’
‘That’s what everyone says. To make me feel better. I thought at least a doctor would be honest.’
She sighs. ‘I really don’t see how I can help you, Sky. Can you breathe through it OK?’
I nod. My eyes are brimming with tears.
‘Has it been broken in an accident?’
I shake my head.
‘Then really, Sky, there’s nothing I can do for you. You don’t need surgery. Your mum is right: give yourself time to get used to it. Wait a few years. You can make a decision
when you’re older. But, until then, no reputable surgeon will touch your nose. You’re still growing, after all. It will probably be fully grown by the time you’re sixteen,
seventeen, or so.’
STILL GROWING? STILL GROWING! No way! So my nose is going to grow even bigger? I’ve got to wait until it’s even larger? How much larger? That’s the worst possible
thing she could have told me. Ever.
‘O-Oh,’ I stutter.
‘We could chat about counselling if you’d like. Maybe you’d like to talk to someone about how you feel. It seems to me that the problem is in your head.’
My problem isn’t in my head, it’s on my head! ‘I don’t want counselling, I want a new nose,’ I say. I get up and grab my jacket so fast that my chair
tips back. Dr Buttery catches it.
‘Sky . . .’ she begins. ‘Let’s talk about this. Stop . . .’ But I’ve already closed the door behind me and fled into the
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