That visceral charge forward left a vacuum behind it, a space of parameters and tolerances that had to be backfilled by the less fortunate. For every Blake -- who reformed almost ideally with features more chiselled and statuesque than he had any right to posses after 54 years of celebrity living -- there were 100 high school prom queens that learned what their social circle truly thought of them.
In those first few months, Reforms were the ultimate in vanity parties. Some teen girl, surrounded by her mom, her admirers, and only the very best of her best friends, would have her head removed with a jewel-encrusted pink guillotine (bought, not rented). As she regained consciousness, she'd find a mostly perfect face, misshapen by a caricatured nose, or permanently blotchy skin, and she'd learn too late that her best friend had been for years fixated on these small defects in a way to save her own, struggling self-esteem.
Even worse were those that had no friends, and tried to go it alone. Staring in the mirror, using a blackmarket Solo-Slice, relying on their own regard to pull them through. The result is obvious in retrospect: a slightly shrunken head, occupied only by the features they were so obsessed with correcting in the first place. The front page picture of a once average face, now uniformly smooth except for a pair of eyebrows, permanently bushy and grown together, finally brought attention to the mostly-hidden problem. But there are still those, so unhappy with their current faces, that they're willing to take the chance.
Of course, once you're reformed, essentially out of other people's thoughts, there's not much physical material for a plastic surgeon to work with. The head has mass, it reacts to a touch, but any changes are quickly undone, like dragging a knife through particularly viscous soup.
Now, reforms are considered to be too risky for the average person, and are almost exclusively the domain of beloved celebrities looking for a second life. Months before the actually ceremony, the actress/chef/politician will go into hiding, and highlights of them at their most vital, most beautiful, will slowly start to flood the media. Old movies will get played on late-night television, a particularly stirring closing argument will resurface on the internet, everything to be dissected and admired by a seed-set of paid commenters.
All of this is controlled by an experienced and well-paid consultant, who monitors the public sentiment. Before celebrity fatigue sets in, the Reformation is announced. Opening acts are booked, and the public is carpet-bombed with one last launch of headshots and "Remember When"s.
Finally, on the marked day, after the red carpet, and the opening acts, and the
"friend" testimonials, the night's main attraction is led onstage -- wearing a mask to guard against any thoughts of wrinkles or rapidly hollowing jawbones -- and sat stage center. The actual method of beheading is often left as a surprise, the lone point where personal style enters into the ceremony. For one action star, it was a razor-chain whipped around by his most famous on-screen nemesis, for a punk-rock pinup with declining credibility, it was 69 small cuts, delivered by actors wearing Bush, Nixon, and Big Bird masks.
Since the Reform Consults business had taken form, the results were almost uniformly perfect. A small mole, or gray hair might sneak through, but every ceremony had left the recipient with a perfect head, which would remain perfect while the rest of their body went on to decay and die -- as it should. It was an extremely competitive market, and not terribly regulated, and there was a sense that the whole thing might just be a run of good luck.
Which is why I now feel a lump in my throat, as I look into an almost empty crowd, and prepare my client's head-dress.
No comments:
Post a Comment