Today was my appointment with a plastic surgeon to get a second opinion on my pending Septo-Rhinoplasty. I've been waking up at 5 in the afternoon these days because I have nothing better to do, so I only got about 2 hours sleep for the 11 in the morning consultation.

Since I can't breathe through my nose, I've been planning on getting a septoplasty to fix my deviated septum as soon as I turned 20. When the ball got rolling on that I halted the insurance and the original plan to entertain the prospect of straightening my nose. My nose leans a little bit to the right, people say they don't notice, but in photographs your face tends to get squished into one dimension and it becomes painfully obvious. My first doctor refused to operate on me because she felt the risk outweighed the benefit, for such a subtle change. She referred me to her old professor just moments away in the hopes of finding something less invasive that would give me what I wanted.

I read the guy's brochure weeks earlier and I knew it wouldn't work out. There he is, a older white man with blue eyes and white hair. His features tailored to preying on the insecurities of middle-aged women. His experience at UCLA and his many honors and awards prominently mentioned throughout the brochure between such selling points as, "let me help you return to your true beauty". His practice even has a logo, two vague faces made of loose linework, a little like Carl's Jr. After reading that I felt sick to my stomach, but my first doctor's recommendation led me to push aside my feelings and pay him a visit anyway.

I arrived at a garden entrance with leather chairs and a large Japanese painted folding wall in the waiting room. The brochure describes this ambiance as relaxing or welcoming, it just made me nervous. I was called into a room to await the doctor and there I sat with my mother. To my left advertisements for Botox, Restylene, and whatever injectable concoctions old women believe will make them attractive again. On the opposing wall there was a collage of framed certifications. UCLA. Residencies. Honors. Awards. I even read "From the President of the United States", it reminded me of the print-outs I'd earn in elementary school for perfect attendance. I wonder now if all of his rooms have the same certifications on the wall, or if we were lucky enough to be in his trophy room.

The doctor finally arrives. He shakes my hand and we all exchange the expected greetings. He questioned me about my referral and what I wanted done as well as my breathing problems. He takes a look in my nose, feels around, getting a sense of what is made up of cartilage and what is bone. I tried to talk, he often talked over me. I believe he finished one sentence and then said, "So what were you saying?". I said I wanted my nose to be straight and was looking for a non-invasive alternative. Instead, he suggested that I not only fix that but also lessen the width of the bottom of my nose and removed a bump on the bridge. He would "throw in" the septoplasty free of charge, as a grand favor to his clients. Its a shame that he jacks up the price of the rhinoplasty to cover any lost profit. Today was a 10% off discount for all nose jobs, he had his wife get the paperwork. I tried desperately to get across all the risks of repeated operations and the variable of the nose shifting again. He almost held back a laugh at the warnings of my first doctor.

The wax woman now called us to another room. She was either shocked to see us or the skin on her eyelids had been pulled back too tightly. She looked at me with eyes that seemed as honest as her husbands, a false sympathy. In my young age I look in the eyes of elders and hope to see in them, my own best interest. Her eyes didn't blink, and she wanted to make this sale. She asked for a timeframe, my mom said summer. I'll never see them again. She showed me a book of his "work", I looked at the before and afters. They always seemed to look more alive before.

I'm glad I went there today. I was on the fence about the aesthetic work I wanted on my nose. I knew my first doctor's outright refusal to operate on me was rare in her occupation. It stung hard when she said "Not looking good in photographs isn't a good enough reason, that's just vanity." You always know when you hear the truth, because it stings and it stays.

The doctor I saw today treated me like an infant, or rather, like any of his other patients. I've done the research, I've seen the procedure, I've seen what can go wrong. He said things like "cute alternative procedures won't work". He used the word "aesthetic", met my blank gaze, read it as incompetence, and defined it. He shied away from calling the procedures by their names. As I sat there between my mother and this salesman masquerading as a doctor I realized that I have no place being there. I'm not some old divorcee who needs to be shot full of plastic to feel attractive. I'm not a woman. Women regard doctors as Gods. Perhaps they learn that doctors are money and money deserves respect. My mom says things like, "Hi Doctor...what do you think Doctor?". That always makes me want to cringe.

I had the mind to not buy into his bullshit. Usually my SAD prevents me from making eye contact, but I didn't have SAD today. I looked into his eyes with an unwavering stare. As we went on about the price to my mother and avoided my technical questions it was almost comical. This whole ordeal was almost too expected. Being another piece of meat on the conveyor belt for Los Angeles plastic surgeons. The 2-for-1 surgery special. Excuse me sir, would you like to super-size your combo and get the chin implant as well?

I feel great today. I needed this experience to realize that I'm a good looking guy, as hard as that is for me to say. Hell, I think everyone is good looking. My fantasy guy is over the hill and sports gray hair and crows feet. I find beauty in everyone, but I have so much trouble finding it in myself. But it took this experience to make me realize that you can either be insecure and fall victim to everyone else's opinion or you can say FUCK YOU. I chose the latter, and I thank God that this series of events led me to this decision. I think people really need to compliment others more. Everyday you're met with a torrent of marketing designed to make you feel like shit, and I really think people need to hear "Your cute...you're boobs are great...I'd plow you". Going to therapy seems increasingly more vital to get my anxiety and insecurities worked out. I'm quickly finding out that as an adult if you lack confidence in yourself you'll forever be a victim. There's a sense of martyrdom or humbleness found in being critical of oneself, but in the end failing to believe in yourself just makes you powerless and pathetic, and those who choose to remain victims don't earn respect.

The first Doctor said, "Your nose is cute. If you were my son I'd strap you down so you wouldn't go through with this." I feel like I owe her a thank-you card and she hasn't even fixed my deviated septum yet.