Aesthetica

by Allie Rowbottom

The in-between time, before results are final, is my favorite of any procedure, a time when I can be sick, but not truly, just stationed in bed, popping painkillers, my body working to heal, my brain acclimating to the bruises and swelling until one day they’re gone and the transformation is complete.

I’m old enough to know that this is how true transformation works, in increments so small you don’t notice until one day you wake up and realize you’ve changed.

I’m finally fixed. Finally, I’m astonishing, sweet, sexy, stelle,

“Is there anything more timeless than two girls doing blow in a bathroom stall?” Girl said, and offered me her pinkie nail, mounded with powder.

I suspect I’ll recover, return, and sometimes the wanting will, too: to be beautiful, to be seen, to be loved and never left. Desire like that isn’t a failure, or a girlhood flight of fancy. It’s a fact of every life.

Every mirror is an illusion. The only one I want is the one my mother offered, a vision of myself through her eyes.

It’s up to me to look upon myself the way I imagine she would: with love. Maybe that’s the wisest approach to the life left for me to move through, age into. It’s a privilege, to age, I see that now.