From the author: A woman obsessed with plastic surgery finds herself wondering what's left that's real in her world.
Grace stared into the mirror, looking for some sign that the changes she’d so recently and enthusiastically wrought had changed her. Had changed her, the sense of self that one intrinsically has, from the very first inkling that there is a self: something separate and alone.
Her eyes were the same. Pale blue-green, staring coldly back at a face that seemed – on the surface, anyway – only subtly altered. At twenty-five, the lids had not yet started to droop. Her lips were slightly fuller, it was true; the result of minor collagen injections she felt sure were almost imperceptible; her skin alabaster smooth now, thanks to a chemical peel. This second procedure, in particular, had been painful – and there were times, as she peeled off the strips of blackened, charred skin, that she had wondered what on earth all this was for – but there was no denying the end result. Smooth, shiny skin now covered her face, and Botox had taken care of the slight frown line that had been developing. All...
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