CORRECTION APPENDED

When Dr. Michael Salzhauer became concerned about his plastic surgery practice’s effect on families, he decided to respond in the most effective way possible: by writing a children’s book. Entitled “My Perfect Mommy,” the tale tells of a young girl whose mother undergoes a nose job, tummy tuck, and breast augmentation. Aiming his story at a four- to seven-year-old audiences, Salzhauer is ostensibly attempting to allay the apprehension of children whose mothers go under the cosmetic scalpel. (See correction below.)

The narrative begins with the fictional mother—whose waist-to-hip ratio is already Barbie-esque—bringing her daughter to the office of “Dr. Michael,” an overly muscular male with a medical degree. Here, the mother explains to her daughter: “As I got older my body stretched and I couldn’t fit into my clothes any more. Dr. Michael is going to help fix that and make me feel better.” When the girl asks if the operations will hurt, the mother answers, “Maybe a little,” adding that, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, her appearance will be altered once her bandages are removed. The daughter asks why she is going to look different, a question which her mother dismisses with the retort: “Not just different, my dear—prettier!”

How the real Dr. Michael can argue that his book merely helps parents to explain their complex choices to their children is incomprehensible. Clearly, it glorifies those choices at the same time. Inevitably, it will have the consequence of indoctrinating youngsters to believe that aging women are damaged goods that need “fixing,” and that cosmetic surgery can make you “feel better” as an appendectomy might.

This propaganda is as insidious as it is damaging. When the mother states that she needs surgery to fit into her wardrobe, how can a kindergartner help but forget that garments are meant to fit people, not vice versa? If we teach children as young as four that cosmetic surgery is a panacea for all self-esteem problems, our collective national body image can only become still more distorted. Notice further that fathers and sons are absent from this tale, a fact that sends the decidedly antifeminist message that it is only the female body that must be perfected.

The author’s supposed motive of disclosure seems to erode as the book contains no real medical information about plastic surgery. Furthermore, the mother does not discuss the rationale behind her breast augmentation. Salzhauer admitted in Newsweek that he tried to avoid that issue, calling it “a stretch for a six-year-old.” Yet the decision to have one’s stomach drained of fat seems no more sensible than stuffing silicone into your bosom. If Dr. Michael actually explained any of cosmetic surgery’s fine print and logistics, most young children would be either perplexed or horrified.

No, “My Perfect Mommy” reads more like a brainwashing brochure than an educational pamphlet. Despite undergoing several serious procedures, each with possible complications, the fictional mother emerges looking like a mildly bruised Stepford wife, a single dainty bandage running across her nose.

Such a depiction conveys the dangerous notion that plastic surgery is just as simple and routine as applying lipstick. This speaks to a culture that now uses Botox more than braces, in spite of new research from the Italian Institute of Neuroscience shows that the botulinum toxin used in facial injections can migrate into the brainstem and cause death.

The fact that many mothers are incapable of simply telling their children about their procedures is also indicative of a poisonous societal context. Today, plastic surgery is an established television genre: “Dr. 90210,” “Nip/Tuck,” and “The Swan” are memorable examples. Even while these popular programs champion the vocation of cosmetic surgeons, their actual patients are meant to sheepishly deny having work done.

If cosmetic surgery is to maintain its unfortunate prominence in American culture, I hope at least that future efforts at depicting the industry, on the page and on the screen, will not ignore the risks associated with its procedures, and will take care not to promote entrenched stereotypes and harmful practices. Targeting a book in praise of plastic surgery to children is inherently perverse—so much so that I yearn for the nauseating tales of my own childhood that insisted: “Everyone is special in their own way.”

Courtney A. Fiske ’11, a Crimson editorial editor, is a freshman in Wigglesworth Hall.

Correction: Dr. Michael Salzhauer's book is not entitled "My Perfect Mommy." In fact, it is entitled "My Beautiful Mommy." The Crimson regrets the error.