HE WAS MY age, Dr. Perrault, with a round face and neatly trimmed beard, a head of thinning hair. When we met in preop, I stared too long probably, trying to determine how there isn’t a better treatment for baldness. So much science can solve about women’s bodies—boobs, butts, labia, anything that sags. But how to fix a thin dick, a receding hairline, remains a mystery. Which feels fair, actually. Men can lean on other things. I once watched a 60 Minutes segment on incels, the online communities they’ve fostered, the “looksmaxxing” (healthy eating, working out) they suggest to land “Stacys” (women), the limitations of “hard looksmaxxing” (plastic surgery) for men, and the “moneymaxxing” they suggest as alternate routes to Chaddom. Even the incels know they don’t need beauty to ascend.

Career, money, a blue and black Ferrari, according to Instagram, Dr. Perrault has all that, which for a man, is better than a snatched jawline or a full head of hair. He scanned my face with his patented Aesthetica™ 4D wand, the size and shape of an ancient car phone, a screen on the top. It beeped as he passed it across my skin. Then he gave me two Valiums and drew a purple pen over my cheekbones, jaw, chin, and nose with short, staccato strokes. He stood back to survey his work, comparing the lines he’d made to what he read on the screen of his wand. I watched his eyes dart over my face.

“Gorgeous,” he said and stared for a moment longer, awkward like a child, totally confident I wouldn’t care, which I didn’t. I liked the attention, felt validated in the surgeon’s line of sight, an object to be fixed. He saw what I saw, the asymmetry, the age, everything I’ve done to try and hide it. And this made me love him.

He moved to the counter, unscrewed a tub of numbing cream, scooped out a handful and slathered my face. The gel was cold and reminded me of ultrasounds, babies, fresh infant skin.

“Alright Anna,” he said and returned to his computer, clicked around. A three-foot screen hung on the wall next to my seat and suddenly it illuminated. A photograph presented itself, bright and giant. A face. Not my face, not quite. “So, looking at the image you provided for context,” Dr. Perrault said, “we see a normal progression of aging for a woman in her middle thirties who has not undergone cosmetic enhancements of any kind. Some jowling here—” he pointed at the face’s lower half. “Some recession here,” he pointed at the chin. “But overall, a nice, natural template for your procedure. Tell me, did your mother seem to have early onset hereditary neck laxity?”

“I honestly don’t recall,” I said, staring at her picture. “I was only six when this photo was taken.”