Marlowe and I stopped at a coffeehouse for a break. I took the shoes off and instantly felt the symptoms of withdrawal, the zaps in my feet, the little pulses of heat. I stood next to the table and drank my iced coffee (183), since I couldn’t sit down. “What is the point of Thinz?” I asked, hoping that my liver and kidneys and everything else that was in there hadn’t become dislodged. “If you appear more fuckable because of Thinz, and then someone wants to . . . fuck you,” I whispered, “then you go home and undress and everything just flops out. Won’t that lead to shock and disappointment? Maybe even despair?”
Marlowe licked the whipped cream off her fruit drink. “Haven’t you learned anything from your boss, Kitty? Being a woman means being a faker.” Outside, a pigeon limped on the sidewalk, a torn piece of donut lodged in its beak.
The makeover continued for days. Marlowe took me to a dermatologist, who injected my forehead with a toxin and suggested a range of treatments to erase my blemishes and newly emerging fine lines. Marlowe said this was important, since the fuckable female body is factory fresh and new, as if the shrink-wrap has just been removed. The doctor said I was no longer allowed to go out in the sun. I had my makeup done by an expert named Kevyn. At his suggestion, Marlowe bought me a selection of high-end cosmetics that cost more than a thousand dollars. I thought of Julia and Leeta in the Beauty Closet, but they were no longer a team, as Julia had informed me.
At a hair salon on Fifth Avenue I refused a drastic change, so my short black bob was trimmed and buffed and I was sent on my way to the manicurist. I splayed my fingers on the manicure table while Marlowe selected the paint color for me, a Ryla Cosmetics shade called Show ’Em the Pink. Then Marlowe and I attended a class called Strippercise, but Marlowe’s commentary didn’t go over well and we were escorted out by a security guard. A woman on the Upper East Side taught me how to do kegels.
After the penultimate task we were in a taxi and I felt exhausted, resting my head against the window, letting it bang on the glass every time we hit a bump. I was used to life in Brooklyn, hidden away in my apartment on Swann Street, trekking to the café and letting myself go like an overgrown garden. The makeover had been days of mowing and pulling weeds, a whole landscaping experience that was painful and disheartening. I still didn’t feel like Alicia. If anything, I had never felt more like Plum. It was her body I had seen in mirrors, her flesh that was painted and waxed and injected with toxin. If Alicia was buried under there, she was impossible to see.
“Next comes the dieting portion of the makeover,” Marlowe said, “but you’re having surgery instead. You’re cutting right to the front of the line, you cheater.” She took me to a plastic surgeon, Dr. Peter Ahmad, famous as the pioneer of the “mommy makeover,” a package deal that included a breast lift, tummy tuck, and vaginal rejuvenation. He also specialized in post–weight loss surgery reconstruction, which is why Marlowe chose him. In the waiting room, a nurse came for me. Her nails were painted the same shade as mine. Marlowe stayed in the waiting room as I was led to the doctor.
Dr. Ahmad asked me to disrobe. We stood in front of a full-length mirror, him in his suit, me naked. I had never been completely naked in front of a man before. The humiliation would have been overwhelming before, but I was numb from days of being prodded and worked over. Even the sight of my crotch—sleek as a hairless cat—didn’t inspire horror. As I stood before the mirror, beneath the bright lights, the shocks of Y—— withdrawal began to needle me again. I could feel them under my skin, but in the mirror I couldn’t see them.
“As I’m sure you know, on a diet your body shrinks slowly,” said Dr. Ahmad. “With the bypass you’ll lose the weight quickly, so you’ll be left with a lot of sagging skin. It will require a number of procedures, which I can do for you.” He took the cap off the black marker he was holding. “First thing is a tummy tuck,” he said. He lifted my stomach and pressed it in, as if it were clay. “You’ll have a flat stomach when we’re through. We’ll cut here,” he said, holding up my stomach with one hand and with the other drawing on me with the marker. He started on my left side and drew a dark, thick line all the way from left to right, showing me where the incisions would be and where he’d stitch me up. He let go of my stomach and let it flop back down.
“That’ll be a long scar.”