My workmate, R., is a beautiful young woman from the Northern Beaches. Unless you live in Sydney, you cannot immediately know what that refers to - a narrow peninsula where a final bastion of white middle classdom remains, bordered by the Newcastle freeway grinding away on one side and the sea on the other. Young women from this area are blonde and pretty with an air of the incipient housewife hanging about them - success here is a big white wedding or a new couch. R. is a recent psychology graduate with a Brazilian boyfriend and a record of brilliant academic achievement. She is also the proud possessor of a new nose.

Her previous nose (before the operation, undertaken to 'help her breathe better' )was longish and narrow and had a sort of aquiline charm, like the nose of a greyhound or a llama. It gave her a slight imperiousness and hinted at a mere possibility of cruelty. Now it is gone, replaced by a still-swollen button nose which has reduced her to perfect beauty and symmetry. In the course of this transformation she has sustained one black eye, a tiny scar, and severe nasal pain, which she considers a small price to pay for 'being able to breathe better'.
Her expensive resculpting has been, as far as she is concerned, a resounding success.