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Copyright © 2010 Andrea Langworthy
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When I called my husband to tell him Farrah Fawcett had died, he said, “I wonder whose next.” He reminded me Ed McMahon had recently passed and quoted the adage that things come in threes.
Something my mother believed, also. Sure enough, Michael Jackson succumbed hours later. I had the misfortune to come down with the flu that day. Too wiped out to hold a book, I flipped through 70-plus channels trying to find something to watch on TV. Other than stale movies and old sitcoms, Michael Jackson’s life and death was the only offering. As I watched montage after montage of his 40-plus year career, I found myself obsessed with the changes in his appearance. The results of a reported 13 different plastic surgeries and whatever he did to change the color of his skin were drastic and hard to avoid.
I understand wanting to change your appearance. My wish was to be tall like my grade school friends who played on the basketball team. My fine, straight hair never held a curl or turned white blonde like my little sisters no matter how hard I prayed. Permanent waves and hair coloring solved those problems. But when it comes to plastic surgery, I’m a scaredy-cat. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t fault those who go under the knife. To each his own, right? I just don’t want someone cutting my face. Not that I couldn’t use some help. Sadly, I inherited my mother’s bloodhound-like eyelids.
Mom’s lids drooped so much she said they impaired her vision and she had surgery when she was in her mid-30s. We all flew to Rochester where Mom would be operated on at the Mayo Clinic. It was the first airplane ride for the five of us kids and even though it was over in 15 minutes, the stewardess served us orange juice and asked if we needed pillows. Plastic surgery was a novelty in those days and I remember Mom wore dark sunglasses on the flight back to Minneapolis. Her eyes turned black and blue and she looked like she’d gone a few rounds with boxer Ingemar Johansson. (Mom was Swedish.)
I thought about Mom and her surgery the day after the deaths of Jackson and Fawcett. Still too sick to do anything but sleep and look at TV, that night I watched Farrah Fawcett’s documentary about her journey with cancer. For two hours, I focused on her fabulous face, looking for tell-tale signs of plastic surgery. When they showed the decades-old poster of Fawcett wearing a red swimsuit and flashing her famous smile, it was easy to see the face of the young actress in the woman she had become. Could it be the Hollywood celebrity hadn’t plumped her lips ala Meg Ryan? Hadn’t had so many facelifts she looked like a caricature ala Joan Rivers? Instead, Fawcett’s face had lines befitting a beautiful woman of 62.
So did my mother. Once she had her saggy eyelids lifted, Mom never had any more work done. In fact, when her hair began to gray, she let it. Admirable, but not for me. If anyone asks, my childhood prayers were answered and the good Lord gave me natural blonde highlights. He hasn’t gotten around to my eyelids but I’m still praying.