No self-respecting hippie chick would ever want to look like a Beverly Hills real estate agent. Obviously, hippie chicks weren't getting face-lifts in the numbers I had suspected.

And interviews with doctors across the country bore this out. Harlan Pollock, a longtime Dallas plastic surgeon who teaches at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical School, told me what most often drives women to plastic surgery is "movies and advertising that put a premium on beauty and youth."

Alan Gold, a Long Island plastic surgeon who serves as a spokesman for the American Society of Aesthetic Plastic Surgery, was more blunt: "I do not live in an area where there is peace, love and granola."

Before I visited a doctor, I made sure he was board certified by the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, because such certification ensures more training and the passing of a rigorous exam. Next, I checked court records and medical board files for malpractice cases.

I consulted with several male doctors who passed all these tests. But I wasn't comfortable with them. They were cheesy. And their female staff members and patients in their waiting rooms made me squirm in my Birkenstocks. With frosted hair and wrinkle-free faces, they reminded me of the trophy wives of oil company executives. I did not want to emerge from the operating room looking like that.

I decided a woman doctor might understand me better. But it took a while to find one. Although more than 91 percent of cosmetic surgery patients are female, only one in nine plastic surgeons is a woman. Plastic surgery is still very much a male-dominated profession.

A non-hippie chick friend recommended Dr. B., a board-certified plastic surgeon at the Phoenix Mayo Clinic. During the consultation, I nervously explained that I wanted a 52-year-old face to match my 52-year-old body.

"You earned those wrinkles," she told me. "Let's keep some of them." She was warm and honest. She recommended a face-lift, eye job and a brow lift so that everything would match. If I chose just one procedure, she said, I wouldn't look right.

"No one will know you've had a face-lift, it will be that natural," she said. Then she gave me a hug.

I knew the woman understood my concept of a natural face-lift, possibly because she once lived in New Mexico, a hippie chick stronghold. But I was terrified of the pain, and opted to test the waters with an eye job in the late fall of 2001. After surviving that surgery with the aid of Mother's Little Helpers, in this case Vicodin and Valium, I scheduled the face-lift and brow lift for Jan. 15, 2002.

Psychologically, having the eyes done first gave me the confidence to continue with the more severe surgery. But it was expensive. I had to pay anesthesia and operating room fees twice. Dr. B's fees were right in line with the national averages reported by the American Society of Plastic Surgery, but I still ended up paying a total of about $15,000 for the two procedures.

What can I say about cosmetic surgery beyond the fact that it is expensive?

It hurts. They pull your skin off your face and snip your muscles and suck out your fat and when it's all over they staple and glue and stitch you shut.

Even so, recovery time is not all that long if you take the right drugs. I stayed home for two weeks with a bag of frozen peas on my forehead and the Vicodin conveniently nearby. A week later, I went skiing.

Dr. B was right. No one can tell I've had a face-lift. The scarring is not evident and I still look like a natural hippie chick, with my smile lines and crow's-feet. The wattles and jowls are gone, but even my hippie chick friends concede I look more refreshed and happy -- as if I've had a good night's sleep.

And the checkout clerk no longer asks me for my senior card.

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