The author dressed as an urbane Iranian woman, complete with Bumpit and a bandage from a nose job. Photo by Michael Marcelle
Two Halloweens ago, after spending months among a community of newly emigrated Iranians, I decided to dress up as a modern Tehrani woman. My new friendsâactual modern Tehrani womenâserved as my consultants. My costume required a mix of obvious elements and unexpected ones: a headscarf pushed back like Jackie Kennedyâs, layers of makeup (the screaming vanity of Tehrani women and all that), a skintight black dress (Iranian women love pushing the limits of the Islamic Republicâs rules), extra-tall Bumpits (big hair is a bit of cultural lunacy much like tight pants among European men. In Iran, a huge bulge under the headscarf is considered a major turn-on). Finally, my team of experts suggested a subtle but crucial detail to make my character a truly authentic upper-class Tehrani. Taking a last look at me, one of them said, âYou need a Band-Aid across your nose.â
âAnd I already have the nose,â I said, pointing to my only purchased body part, dainty and upward-pointing since I was 18. I may be American, but Iâm Persian too, I wanted to say. Of course Iâve had my nose done.
Walking around Tehran, one will see glamorous women in hijab and expensive glasses, âbandages of honorâ prominently displayed across their noses, sometimes long after healing, unafraid of offending the authorities. The nose-job women of Tehran are nothing to marvel at anymore; theyâre the standard, and Western media love to watch them saunter about in all their brazen glory. In November 2008, Oprah ran a story on Iranian cosmetic surgery: âWomen see the bandage as a status symbol. âI had a friend who had a nose job, and she kept the bandage⊠after two years on her nose just to show everybody that she had nose job,â [a young woman from Iran] says.â To many young Persian women, such displays make perfect sense, especially given the cultural focus on finding good husbands. The bandage signals that you come from a family who cares and provides for youâeven if you donât need a nose job, having a family that can afford to give you one is preferable to having the genetics for a petite nose.
Iran has the highest rate of nose surgery in the world per capita. According to most estimates, Iranians get four times the amount of nose jobs that Americans do. This is staggering for an Islamic country, and according to a March 2013 story in the Guardian, itâs not limited to the rich, as clothing sellers, office workers, university students, and even teenagers opt to spend their savings or go into debt for the procedure. Though cosmetic surgery has permeated the culture, the Islamic Republic has made only the slightest gestures of disapproval. Ayatollah Khomeini sanctioned rhinoplasty in the 1980s, referencing the Hadith: âGod is beautiful and loves beauty.â And yet, in June 2014, the BBC reported that a state-run television station, Tehran Channel, banned from its programming any actors or actresses who had undergone plastic surgery.
It was only after 1979âand the revolution that ousted the shah and brought in the Islamic Republicâthat people considered Tehran the nose-job capital of the world. Why would this strange trend occur in an Islamic country? Thereâs no question that Iranian culture influences the behavior of the people more than Islam does, and for centuries that culture has placed a deep focus on physical beauty in all its forms. Given that, one explanation seems to have caught on: Because the mandatory hijab leaves nothing but the small circle of the face as a canvas for beauty and self-expression, Iranian women have become obsessed with their faces. They want their features to be delicate, symmetrical, and European. Given many young womenâs willingness to go under the knife and into debt for beauty, nose jobs have become an Iranian rite of passage.
After several decades the trend has spread throughout the Iranian diaspora, who also value their Persianness and are influenced by the culture back home. For Persian women and some men, the operation is a marker not just of physical beauty but also of wealth and social priorities. Itâs not so much about vanity as about the desire to join a class of Iranians who look European, read American books, travel, and live Western lives. Ironically, removing the Persian bump, that distinctly Iranian hooked nose, contributes to oneâs sense of cultural identity. The standard for an Iranian face has changed, and while the operation alters a distinctly Middle Eastern part of the face, it is ultimately a very Iranian decision.
But if the trend is fueled in part by the Islamic Republicâs restrictive dress codes, why is it so prevalent among the Iranian diaspora too? And why did it happen before 1979? My mother, grandmother, and aunt altered their noses at a young age, and all three are conservative women. My grandmother, who had the surgery in Tehran in the late 60s, had suffered from a fall that damaged her noseâthough this is a common tale. As the story goes, before her doctor fixed the break, he said, âWhile weâre there, why not make your nose smaller?â My aunt and mother followed their mother in the early 70s. âOnly a few other girls had it back then,â said my mother, who has a nose Iâve envied since I was a kid. âIt was a luxury. But I was in medical school, so I could get it for free.â Rare as it was back then, the decision was still a by-product of Iranian standards in marriage and courtship. âAfter her nose job, everybody wanted to marry your aunt,â my mother said. âHer old nose⊠it was very najoor.â There isnât a perfect translation for this exquisite word. It connotes something tragically arranged.
Dr. Benjamin Rafii, a Persian ear, nose, and throat surgeon practicing in Los Angeles, explained that the phenomenon isnât a reaction to Islam. âIranians over the last 50 years have had a strong cultural relationship with Europe,â he said. âApplying the European ideals of beauty, Persian women are considered to have many desirable facial featuresâalmond-shaped eyes, full high-arched eyebrows, strong cheekbones, but the nose stands out as big and misshapen, often with a prominent dorsal hump. Itâs an easy target for cosmetic âoptimization.ââ
In my motherâs time, before the revolution and the mandatory headscarf, this European influence drove famous people to the operating table. âIn those days many Iranian celebrities had been altered,â my mother said. âYou can tell actresses like Forouzan and Homeyra had done it. And Ramesh [a singer] and Jamileh [a dancer].â After a moment, she added the simple explanation that Dr. Rafii had also given. âWeâre Persian,â she said. âWe just have bad noses.â
In the early 70s, the procedure wasnât sophisticated. Instead of a modern splint, my mother had to endure three yards of gauze âtampons,â as they were called, stuffed all the way up her nostrils and down her throat. The most skilled plastic surgeons were elevated to the level of artists and sought after by the wealthiest IraniansââThey call them golden paws,â my mother said. In the 60s and 70s each doctor had a personal rhinoplasty style. âEveryone that used my sisterâs doctor came out with the same nose as her, flatter, with less of a point. Everyone that used mine came out with my nose, thin and pointed. And all three of us [mother and two daughters] ended up with a totally different nose. Now doctors let you choose. Back then, they each had one.â
I too was afflicted with the âPersian nose.â When I was a 17-year-old sporty book nerd in Oklahoma, I started to think about how I would look when I arrived at Princeton. My mother had discouraged me from dating, wearing makeup, and all other vanities, but she drove me unprompted to the surgeonâs office. She said, âYou can have this if you want.â I happily accepted the offer.
Now, I have one remaining aunt who still has our original nose, and sometimes I look at her and her children with envy. A part of me wants to know what I would have looked like, as an adult, if I had my natural nose. Of course, on most days I donât even want to imagine itâIâve become accustomed to a certain level of perceived beauty, and I like to pretend that itâs mine by right, by Iranian tradition. I wouldnât give back the confidence I have now, though I wonder if I would have gained it over the years regardless, even without the procedure. Sometimes I tell myself that Iâm more Iranian because of the surgery. It is a rite of passage that I share with my mother, aunt, grandmother, and thousands of other women from my home country. So which version of me is more Persian? Itâs a complicated question. I have my arguments and my data, but the psychology is a mess. Every time Iâve had an Iranian boyfriend or lover with my former nose, Iâve fallen a little too much in love. Does that mean I long for my original face? Do they have authentic, untainted Persian bodies?
There was something uncomfortable about that Halloween, about wearing a bandage on my nose in such a farcical way. Had I chosen this costume because I had something to prove? Look at meâIâm Iranian! Did I want to return to the days of my own surgical decision? All night I kept touching the plaster, and now and then I found myself preemptively explaining it. Finally, I ripped it off. I looked Iranian enough without itâI have the almond-shaped eyes, the eyebrows, the language, the scarf rebelliously askew. Itâs been 15 years, I thought. My face is my face.
This article was originally featured on Vice.com
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