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Everybody has a friend like Kirsty Alley to make them feel better about themselves. Nobody has friends that look like Cheryl Cole.

Cheryl ColeDolls are cute, aren’t they? You play with them a bit when you’re little, dip them in some vinegar or something and chew their leg off until they’re nothing but a carcass of plastic and realigned scalp. But it’s true what they say, that what you grow up with carries with you in later life. Like if you’ve had a really messed up childhood, you might have a justification for being a crack addict when you turn 25. Or if you’ve been overwhelmingly sheltered by Mother Juliette and Father Theodore, you might start smashing stuff up and putting your head in people’s potted plants by the time you reach adolescence. Stuff like that, that all makes sense. And dolls yield a similar line; we get all confused by their 2.0 durable perfection and follow the curve of either being entirely infatuated by these divine creatures, or waiting for them to malfunction after kicking open the box.

 

They baffle the eyes though dolls do – a perfect nose? Exquisite bone structure? This couldn’t be true, surely?! That boz-eyed postal worker that muffled behind a parcel earlier, the one with the greasy fingers still earthed with crumbly pastry from breakfast, that is the usual indictment of human, not this creature that sits in the palm of our hands like a great big epithet of faultlessness. So when real humans do look like the dolls we lust after when we are little, we start to get a little bit excited. We start making quick, hyperventilated breaths and we don’t quite know how to react unless we can relieve ourselves under a bed-sheet. And that’s what we’ve come to expect, in celeb-world, in doll-world, in fake-land of the prissy pop-mongers, we see them as our very own dolls that are without humane characteristics and, like a doll, exhibit about 8% brain density with an unnatural fascination with stickers.

 

The most common plastic surgeries of the moment are liposuction (because Barbie wouldn’t be able to fit in the DreamCar with a muffin top), botox and dermabrasion (the smoothing out of lines in the skin). These are amongst the bunch of popular go-tos on an uppity lunch break or after a bad weekend at the chip shop, whilst surgeries such as rhinoplasty (the reshaping of the nose) can be exemplified on Barbie-esque celebrities such as Blake Lively, where the slimmer, more streamlined nozzle has quite quintessentially transformed her whole face. It seems rather doubtful as to if she would have ever been as successful as she is now without that surgery. Imagining if she could have ever got that enviable role as Serena van der Woodsen in Gossip Girl, where image was the focal point of the show, leaves quite the stinging taste of rhetoric in the air with an undermining chortling undertone.

 

And for those that are just born with the cutesy doll-like nose, like Bar Rafaeli, that bendy model lady with the world’s tiniest features and the world’s largest bank account, they’ve got it good. There is something about small features that make us all go a little bit melty on the inside and find quite ‘sweet’ or ‘pretty’, and has become quite the face of beauty in itself. Kirsty Alley, a woman with a broad nose, big lips and spaced eyes (I’m not selling her too well here) will never be deemed ‘beautiful by the greater majority. Ever. Not ever. She looks like a rare mammoth. No, she’s not subtle enough for us, we like to work for our meat. The cute nose, the two big baby puddly eyes, the dainty oval-shaped noggin – it’s basic maths. E equals mc squared and that. And if you’re blessed with the doll centre-fold, you tick all of the basic requirements that make a man go goobly-eyed, then be prepared for many a woman to go, ‘…yeah well, she’s got massive knees anyway’. Heat magazine basically circumcises any beautiful woman that, oops, might have a slip of the nipple or, whoopsy, might have a little bit of under-arm fat. That’s why the big red circles around the snapped stars and ‘what were they thinking?!’ appeal so dramatically as the focal feature of our favourite glossies. Because, at the end of the day, you can’t be born with it all and not suffer the backlash. We are a nation of green-eyed monsters, with really slim knees, but big massive Dumbo ears to even out the kilter. We’re all victims of our own criticisms…  and that is the truth of all things skirted and full of foaming oestrogen.

 

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