Korean Beauty Scare

I was wandering through downtown Seoul, minding my own business, when a passerby thrust a coupon into my hand, entitling me to a free visit to a local beauty clinic. Well, as a frugal ghost, I try to utilise every discount coupon and offer I come across, so I immediately set off towards the clinic.

I had read articles about Korean cosmetic surgery. Beauty procedures are widely accepted here; they’re practically mandatory. It’s not uncommon for relatives to gift money to young university graduates for cosmetic surgeries. Pretty face, pretty future! My own future is already behind me, but I'd personally prefer a smaller nose and fuller lips over a Moomin mug as a gift any day. Having witnessed this lifelessness for so long, it's time to start investing in my appearance. Maybe if I were even more handsome, I could finish writing my book.

Upon arriving at the clinic, I informed the reception desk that I had come to utilise the coupon I had received. I asked what the catch was with this offer and if coffee and sweets were also available. The receptionist explained that the clinic was interested in attracting more Western customers whose photos they could use in advertising. I knew that the Western beauty ideal was sought after there – although I didn't understand why – but I could probably earn something from a career as a photo model, so I readily agreed to take part in an advertisement campaign.

The receptionist asked what kind of beauty treatments I would be interested in. I said that since the operation would be free, and I had already used this visage of mine to last me a lifelesstime, the whole face could be operated on. It might be best to change the whole head. The receptionist replied that they unfortunately did not offer such services, but if I was interested in trying different consultation services, that could be arranged. I said that 'consultant' was a profession I should have considered. During my long haunting years, I could have billed a significant number of hours to gullible fools by talking nonsense instead of striking out as an author, but you unlive and you never learn, and that's how it goes. 

The receptionist called over a cosmetologist, who guided me to another room and instructed me to sit in a chair. The cosmetologist meticulously examined my face and marvelled at how white and wrinkle-free I was, asking what my secret might be. I said that I use bleach when washing sheets and finish by pressing them with an iron.

Next, the cosmetologist wanted to perform a colour analysis on me to determine if I was a Winter, Spring, Summer, or Autumn, to which I replied that I was a timeless classic. She took out pieces of fabric in different colours and held them next to my head, looking thoughtful. I stated that white was the only colour I approved of, as it suits every season, perhaps blinds others a little in sunny weather, but that wasn't really my problem. I added that I would be interested in taking the scraps for myself, as I could use them as handkerchiefs and cleaning rags.

Muttering to herself, the cosmetologist put the fabric scraps away and dug out a cloth face mask. She presented it to me briefly, saying it contained soothing tomato and cucumber extract and would bring out my skin's natural glow. She quickly placed the mask on my face before I could comment on anything. Then she turned on instrumental music on the radio, told me to relax, and said she would return in fifteen minutes.

I sat listening to the pan flute music and soon realised that the mask placed on my face with its tomato and cucumber extracts didn't soothe me at all; it merely soaked into my sheet. Why should one externally absorb cucumber and tomato when the most sensible thing would be to eat them as they are? I pulled the mask off and, after looking at it for a moment, decided to eat it. As I was chewing the face mask, the cosmetologist returned to the room, and I observed a slight furrowing of her eyebrows on her otherwise expressionless face. I don't know what face masks she used herself, but her inner glow didn't quite reach the surface.

Out of sheer curiosity, I asked the cosmetologist at what point in her career she had realised that the entire beauty business is a scam, and that the sole purpose of the industry is to take the last pennies from superficial simpletons who desperately cling to the belief that by slathering on creams and injecting ampoules they will remain young forever, even though the only surefire way to remain young is to die young – I myself was a lifeless example of eternal, unchanging beauty.
To break the awkward silence, I then said enough beauty treatments, where should I pose for the photographs for my upcoming advertising campaign? I also mentioned that I was available for fan meet-and-greets, at which point the cosmetologist curtly told me to leave the clinic. I gladly left, as they didn't even offer coffee and sweets, and the taste of the face mask could certainly have been improved.

Walking along the streets, I concluded that the culture of cosmetic surgery initially seems overly superficial, but then I decided that I don't really have anything against it either. Perhaps it would even be beneficial for certain people; possibly the tightness of their hair buns would loosen by tightening the skin on their face. I am fortunate because I don't need beauty clinics or their services. After all, wrinkles don't bother the lifeless!

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