By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
The first thing everyone notices is that this is no ordinary doctor's office. As you step inside the glass doors inscribed with the monogram of Dr. Ernest DiGeronimo, one of Dade County's most successful and controversial plastic surgeons, you're greeted by an ornate fantasy of luxury, one that conjures up the grandiose interiors of ancient Rome, or at the very least a bordello patronized by Caesar. Here, past the black marble pedestals topped by golden sculptures of Etruscan peasants and underneath the glittering chandelier, sits the enormous marble-topped reception desk with a gold shield in its center. Patients come to the desk as if they were supplicants at some altar of beauty, then head toward a waiting room appointed with gold-colored French provincial antique chairs and paintings of seminude maidens on the walls. "It shows," the soft-spoken, amiable Ernest DiGeronimo explains, "that I won't settle for anything but the best."
DiGeronimo's patients are equally determined to achieve an ideal of the perfect body and face for themselves, even if it means spending thousands of dollars and enduring the discomforts that follow submitting to a surgeon's knife. DiGeronimo sees as many as 30 patients a day, mostly for consultations and follow-up visits, but he performs about two or three painstaking operations -- including liposuction -- and numerous minor procedures daily; the latter range from facial laser surgery to collagen injections, which place a creamy animal protein underneath wrinkles to smooth them out. Annually, his office grosses in the "millions," he estimates, but he declines to get more specific about his earnings. There are ample reasons why Dr. D. -- as he's known by his staff of nine -- has such a lucrative, busy practice, and they're not simply due to whatever skill and charm and promotional flair he possesses.
Florida, you see, is a gold mine for plastic surgeons. According to the latest figures from the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons (ASPRS), Florida is home to the second-highest number of procedures performed in the nation -- about 40,000 in 1994, by ASPRS board-certified physicians (California is number one) -- and ten percent of the nation's total number of plastic surgeries. Even the type of surgery differs down here: Elsewhere, tumor removal is the most common procedure; in Florida, it's eyelid surgery, followed by liposuction.
The climate is one reason plastic surgeons are so active here, notes Dr. John Cassel, the past president of the Greater Miami chapter of ASPRS. "We're very sun-worship oriented, so there's more body-contouring surgery than you might see up in New England," he adds. And exposure to the sun ages skin faster, leading to a greater demand for face-lifts and chemical "peels," which remove layers of skin cells. However, far more than the sun propels people seeking to transform themselves into the hands of the 47-year-old DiGeronimo. Among other things, South Florida's culture and values and image-making businesses exalt physical beauty above all else. "The influx of models and advertising here gives people a new perception of what's beautiful," DiGeronimo points out. "People see these things and they want them for themselves."
But life in a plastic surgeon's office emphasizes that the desire for an idealized, youthful self has even deeper roots, in the cravings of the heart and mind or perhaps even in our genes. And for some of the patients who come to see DiGeronimo, it is a longing that never may be completely satisfied -- no matter what they want done to themselves.
On a recent afternoon, a thin, attractive woman in her early thirties -- we'll call her Ellen (all patients' names in this story have been changed) -- sits in DiGeronimo's Aventura office asking him for advice about ways to become even thinner. His personal office is jammed with artifacts and decorative touches, some of which are gifts from grateful patients: gold Tiffany timepieces on his desk, purple vases and glass figurines arranged along the oversize picture windows, flowers and greenery practically everywhere. Ellen already has altered her appearance by having permanent makeup tattooed on her lips, eyebrows, and eyes a few months earlier by a DiGeronimo-supervised tattoo specialist named Mirinka (her public name). Now Ellen wants more changes.
"I'm interested in liposuction," she says earnestly.
"In what areas?" DiGeronimo asks. He's dressed in blue surgical scrubs.
"The abdominal area, thighs, and whatever else you want to recommend. I'm into immediate gratification," she laughs.
"How's your weight?"
"My weight's a little high for me, although I was always on the thin side. It's too much work to get it off by exercise," she adds. (She is a little over 5 feet tall, and her 112 pounds is actually well within a normal, healthy range.)
"Even when I was anorexic, about 90 pounds, I had a little bit on the abdomen I couldn't get rid of," she notes casually, pinching her stomach. Neither she nor the doctor seems to view her wish to remove more fat with a suction tube as any kind of continuation of her obsessions over her weight. After all, as DiGeronimo said earlier in the day, "If I can do it and they want it, I'll try to fulfill their desires" -- with a few exceptions. For instance, in another case he rejected an overweight woman's request for liposuction because she was making good progress in losing weight on her own.
The pair enters a nearby dressing room, and Ellen briefly hikes up her skirt and blouse to show DiGeronimo the body parts that so disturb her. She points to her thighs and then she grabs her abdomen. He tells her, "You see when you pinch the fat that some of it is thinner and some of it is fatter; liposuction will reduce those areas. But we have to leave some fat there."
"Why?" she asks.
He laughs but doesn't offer any lectures about the necessity for a minimum amount of body fat for, say, survival or menstruation. Instead he reassures her that it's needed for proportion's sake. "And if you do lose some weight, you'll look even better," he tells the woman who considers herself a recovering anorexic.
"I used to be perfect without this," she grouses, touching her stomach.
When they return to DiGeronimo's office, she presses him about a more extreme operation, a "tummy tuck," but he tells her, "You'll do fine with liposuction." He then bluntly describes the harsh realities of the procedure: "What it takes are some puncture sites, small little incisions that I insert a little tube in, in an area that doesn't show too much. The operation itself takes under two hours, and you'll have some puncture sites after the operation that are black and blue for a month or even two."
Despite his description of the procedure, she's eager to go ahead. But because she's still doctor-shopping, she doesn't commit to a specific date during this visit. Ultimately she selects a Broward physician, Dr. Melvin Propis, because, as she later explains, DiGeronimo "was kind of limited in what he wanted to do." Propis, she adds, has agreed to do liposuction, a breast lift, and a chin implant. Ellen observes, "Whether it's necessary or not isn't the point. I want the optimal look."
It is somehow fitting that in Miami, a place where people often come to start their lives over, they also choose to stake out new ground in yet another frontier: their own bodies. Body parts, like so much else here, are considered malleable and transitory. In DiGeronimo's office, he and his staff encourage the view that the body can be easily altered (although they also disclose the pain and risks that may be involved in surgery, such as infections and cardiac arrest). The idea of the changeable self is most effectively promoted in a little room in which DiGeronimo shows patients computerized images of themselves.
For Alice, the before-and-after photos are just part of her efforts to determine if the doctor can make the precise improvements she wants. At first glance, when she's talking to the doctor in his office, it's hard to see what -- if anything -- about herself she wants to change. Dressed in a trim business outfit, she's a strikingly pretty woman. But something troubles her. "I want a small nose," she says, running her finger over a modest bump on her nose. "It's really the bone in here that bothers me."
"That can be filed down," DiGeronimo tells her.
"I was also thinking of a chin implant," she adds, believing it would help make her nose look even smaller. "You're not really a candidate for that," he says after a moment's deliberation. Then, with an almost jaunty air, he adds, "Let's go down to have a computer profile. Just tell me how much you want to take off."
They pass through a door -- ringed by a horseshoe-shape display of gold-colored metal leaves and a Roman numeral -- and enter a room with a camera, TV monitor, and photo printer. He has her pose for a side shot of her face, freezes it on the right side of the screen, then sits down with a white electronic sketch pad and begins moving around what looks like an oversize pencil. "Let's work on your nose," he says. On the left side of the screen, a little pointer starts moving back and forth, erasing the bump. "We want to smooth off the bone by filing it down," he remarks, almost as if it could be done that simply in the operating room.
"It still looks big," she complains.
"You want me to make it shorter?" he asks, as the nose changes shape again.
"I'd like it to go up a little on the end," she adds.
With that, DiGeronimo also takes a front photo of her, and, at her request, makes her nose look thinner. She goes over to a machine, presses a button, and watches as Polaroids of her old and new selves emerge. She studies the pictures carefully. "I think it looks a lot better," she concludes.
Ultimately the doctor will make clear to her -- as he does with all his patients -- that he can achieve only a close approximation of the look in the photos. But for now, he lets the pictures subtly sell her on his services: The new, improved Alice seems to be within her reach at the press of a button.
Alice is no stranger to cosmetic surgery. Now 30 years old, she had her breasts "augmented" nine years ago, and has been hungering to have a nose job for about four years. She isn't fazed by the higher-than-average costs cited by DiGeronimo's office -- $4475, including follow-up supplies and drugs -- or the views of her boyfriend, friends, and family. "People around me think I'm crazy to have it done," she notes. But now she has the Polaroids that show her how she can be remade, spurring her toward the operating room and the promise of a renovated self. "It's a vain thing," Alice admits. "It's all about appearances."
In the real world of surgery, however, a new look is not achieved just by snapping a photo and electronically altering an image. The gory manual labor begins as DiGeronimo and his two surgical assistants prepare a 21-year-old student, John, for the procedures that may change his life: a nose job (or rhinoplasty) and the setting of oversize ears closer to his head. John's goal is to be an actor, and he has been disturbed for years about his appearance. He already has had two nose jobs by other doctors, the last one causing the cartilage in the front of his nose to collapse. Now he's seeking to undo the damage of previous work, and, finally, to get the look he craves.
Nurse Rodney Davis, a free-lance anesthetist who works for DiGeronimo and other doctors, helps John onto the black operating table and covers him with a thick yellow and brown blanket A the temperature is kept cool to ward off germs A before injecting an intravenous needle into his right arm. Within minutes John becomes groggy after Davis adds sedating drugs to the IV tube, which funnels into the patient a dextrose and saline solution that provides liquid nutrients during surgery. In today's cosmetic surgery, doctors usually avoid using general anesthesia so the patient faces reduced drug risks and is more cooperative during surgery, while still being numbed and sleepy. DiGeronimo begins the painkilling process by injecting needles into the side of John's skull, along the ears, and in the nose.
The doctor starts with the ears. He coolly slices a curved line behind John's right ear, removing skin and exposing a bloody area of cartilage and muscle. Then he takes a long needle and begins scratching the exposed cartilage so he can bend it more easily. After doing that, he proceeds to quickly stitch together the back of the ear so it folds up, making it look smaller and bringing it closer to the head. "See that ear there?" he asks playfully. "Watch what happens when I tighten it," he adds, tugging on the thread and making the ear wiggle. He presses the ear closer to the skull, runs another thread hooking the back of the lower part of the ear to the skull, and pulls on the thread. At various points during every procedure, DiGeronimo is absolutely silent as he focuses on a challenging task, while at other times he chats amiably as he performs a job such as stitching up an incision, exuding the confidence of someone who has been in practice for nearly sixteen years.
On the table, John stirs awake for a moment, moaning in a foggy voice, "It hurts so much."
"We'll give more local [anesthetic]," DiGeronimo announces. Both the doctor and Nurse Davis are calm about the patient's temporary pain because they know the drug's dosage can be increased with the press of a switch attached to the IV tube, adding more fluid to the bloodstream. After less than an hour, DiGeronimo starts on the more daunting task: reshaping the nose.
"This is what I really love, doing a nose that's been done before," DiGeronimo says. "It makes it an even bigger challenge." He affixes what looks like an odd miner's-cap-style headlight over his forehead; it is actually a magnifying glass attached to a fiber-optic tube running from a light-source box on the floor. Then he chooses a scalpel and begins cutting the tips of John's nostrils. Blood starts flowing, so much so that a tube is placed up his nose to draw off the blood. The doctor reaches into the nose with scissors and extracts a bloody piece of cartilage. "This side of his nose was totally blocked," he says, continuing to cut flesh. Now he lifts up the skin that's covering the entire nasal bone underneath and moves it to the side as if it were a rubber mask. He plunges long scissors deep into the nostrils and cuts some more. "Are you going to file it or break it?" Davis asks.
"Break it," DiGeronimo says. Like any sculptor, he uses his chisel, positioning it carefully underneath the skin on the middle of John's nose and instructing the assistant to start tapping with a hammer. It is a far harder task than moving a computerized pointer on a TV monitor. John stirs uneasily under the blanket, and DiGeronimo snaps, "Keep him down, Rodney." Davis injects additional medication into an opening in the IV tube, then reaches up and flicks the switch that permits more fluid to flow into the patient.
DiGeronimo removes more cartilage, then exults like a cowboy lassoing a steer: "Whee-hah!" He boasts, "When I finish him, he'll be able to run a marathon with his mouth closed!" The doctor chisels some more to narrow the bridge of the nose, scoops out more cartilage to reduce a bulbous protrusion near its tip, and announces, about an hour after he started, "Okay, let's sew it up."
"There's a lot of difference," Davis says admiringly. "He'll look a lot better."
After putting an aluminum splint on John's nose and wrapping the patient's ears with bandages, DiGeronimo helps John walk into a reclining chair in the recovery room. He is woozily becoming alert, and virtually the first words he says are "How do I look?" Waiting for him are his parents. His mother tells him, "John, it looks like a little nose."
Two weeks later, John is experiencing a normal amount of stuffiness and swelling, but otherwise he's quite pleased. "I think it looks much better," he says. "My nose is thinner, my ears are pinned back. It was just something that bothered me."
John is something of an anomaly. Only about fifteen percent of all plastic surgeries performed in the U.S. are done on men, according to the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons, but here in Florida some surgeons report 25 percent male patients. DiGeronimo says a mere five or ten percent of his patients are men. And while appearance matters to men, it doesn't play the overwhelmingly central role it does in women's lives.
The women who come to see DiGeronimo apparently feel driven to look younger and sexier by any means necessary. Breast surgery is particularly popular among younger women, even in the wake of class-action suits against manufacturers of silicone implants and growing medical concerns about the effects on the immune system of saline implants. All the controversy, in fact, ultimately boosted DiGeronimo's business, because it raised awareness about breast surgery and led to an upsurge in women seeking replacements for their silicone gels. And in the doctor's view, the need for his women patients to have bigger and better breasts is perfectly understandable: "When you're a female with small breasts, you want to have bigger breasts. They feel it gives them an advantage in a competitive world."
A few days before her scheduled breast surgery, a 30-year-old mother of two, Juanita, is getting a final checkup and talking about breasts with a woman who had her breast job a week earlier. Amy, a perky young blonde, is proud of her new breasts, pointing out she was only slightly flat-chested before the operation, and yet insisting, as almost all of the women coming to the office for cosmetic surgery insist, that she's not really doing it to attract new men into her life. "It just looks more appealing in bathing suits," she explains. "You feel more confident because you look better."
As for Juanita, she didn't like the way her breasts shrank after she stopped nursing her last child, and these days she's too ashamed to take off her shirt when she makes love to her current boyfriend. "I feel bad about my breasts," she allows, but, typically, she claims, "I'm doing this for me."
Not quite, if certain experts are to be believed. Charles Carver, a professor of psychology at the University of Miami, cites genetically coded evolutionary pressures as the hidden engine behind cosmetic surgery. "The vast majority of cosmetic surgery is done on women," Carver explains, "and this is consistent with the evolutionary goal of a female to attract suitors and to give every appearance of being young and fertile in order to be a good breeding partner." Even if reproduction isn't part of a woman's conscious reason for seeking cosmetic surgery, Carver adds, "The desire to be attractive is one that never goes away," no matter if a woman already has a mate.
The same principles of evolutionary psychology apply equally to older women, argues Robert Wright, author of The Moral Animal. "Plastic surgery is a way of fooling the age-detection mechanisms of men, who are designed to prefer younger women," he theorizes. "These women are playing a game shaped by evolutionary logic."
Female therapists, on the other hand, point to a range of social -- not genetic -- pressures on women that help goad them toward plastic surgery. "Women keep getting messages from the culture to look younger and thinner," notes Adrienne Ressler, a therapist who specializes in body-image issues at the Renfrew Center, a women's mental health clinic in Coconut Creek. "It leads to the relentless pursuit of perfection. They're buying a mythical product -- physical perfection -- that doesn't exist." Up to a third of the Broward County center's patients, who are treated for eating disorders, sexual abuse, and depression, also have submitted to plastic surgery, far higher than the average in the general populace. Ressler believes that many women's reliance on plastic surgery is similar to the impulse behind excessive dieting. "It's really sad," she says. "It's all part of a movement to deny being human."
Whatever drives women to indulge in cosmetic surgery, there's little doubt that many of them want to change as much as they can about themselves. For instance, over the last year, 45-year-old Maria has had a tummy tuck (a horizontal incision in the skin covering the abdomen that permits the tightening of skin and the removal of fat), liposuction, and a nose job at DiGeronimo's office. Now she boasts that her husband calls her "the teenage mom." (She's so proud of the changes that she asks the doctor to show off her "before" pictures: a flabby woman with folds of flesh on her abdomen, thighs, and buttocks, all marked up with blue pencil lines like a butcher's diagram of the parts of a cow.)
These days women are seeking cosmetic surgery at earlier ages than ever before. At least one Dade County plastic surgeon, Dr. Carlos Wolf, has said that several women under the age of 30 have clamored for face-lifts. Adds DiGeronimo, "Fifteen years ago, if somebody in their forties came in asking for a face-lift, you'd throw them out the door and say they're nuts." Now these baby boomers (ages 31 to 49) make up the largest segment -- 41 percent -- of cosmetic surgery patients. The national plastic surgery group, ASPRS, reports that liposuction, eyelid surgery, and collagen injections are the three most requested procedures by baby boomers, who have been shaped by the youth culture of the 1960s and are disturbed by aging, according to Marcella Bakur-Weiner, an adjunct professor of psychology at Marymount Manhattan College who has written books on aging and body image. "My generation wasn't hung up on getting older," says the 69-year-old Bakur-Weiner. (DiGeronimo's pattern of surgeries on baby boomers reflects the national trends, although he does more face-lifts for this group.) Although there are still plenty of women in their fifties and sixties who want to turn back the clock, there are increasing numbers of women in their early forties -- or younger -- who tell DiGeronimo "I want to stay young and look more refreshed," he points out.
The boomers also bring with them a sense of entitlement, a view that when it comes to self-improvement, there's no reason to scrimp. "They grew up with so many options," Bakur-Weiner says. Now they want the best looks money can buy. Says one 39-year-old woman planning a face-lift in DiGeronimo's office, "I saw the folds on my face, and thought, 'If I do it now, I won't have to do it when I'm 45.' Why should I have these bulldog folds if I don't have to have them?"
The hunger of baby-boomer women, among others, for cosmetic surgery isn't limited to Americans. Many patients from Latin America and the Caribbean visit DiGeronimo's office, too. One of these women, Marie, a 43-year-old white Haitian mother, has come here for eyelid surgery after a 73-year-old friend raved about her own DiGeronimo-performed face-lift. The procedure, the doctor says while pointing to her slightly fleshy eyelids and the bags under her eyes, "will make the difference between having the eyes of someone her age and someone ten years younger." That indeed is Marie's hope, as photos are taken of her before her surgery. "My eyes are the best feature that I have," she says, "and I want to have a younger look."
Woozy from drugs, she lies on the operating table as the doctor draws lines on her eyelids with a blue felt-tip pen to mark the spots for his incisions. DiGeronimo works rapidly, cutting along the eyelid as blood begins to flow, while snipping away the extra flesh. He hoists the skin up with his scissors and drops it on a cloth-covered surgical-tool tray nearby. In order to reduce black-and-blue marks later on, he also uses a "cauterizing" tool -- a type of electric tweezers he controls with a foot pedal -- that singes the exposed flesh, sending wisps of smoke floating upward. He proceeds to slit open the bags under each eye and peel them downward, exposing the repulsive sight of raw bloody tissue underneath the skin. DiGeronimo uses tweezers and scissors to remove the fatty slivers lying there, calmly tugging the tissue, then snipping it loose. "These are the things that make your eyes seem puffy," he explains to a visiting reporter, lifting out what look like bloody baby worms and placing them on the surgical tray.
After the extra skin and fat are removed, DiGeronimo starts sewing the sliced flesh back together. It seems like an extraordinarily delicate task, guiding a curved needle with small scissors, looping the thread through two separated pieces of skin and tying them together, but he remains cool throughout. "When she heals," he says, referring to Marie, whose first eyelid he just sewed up, "you won't even be able to see that scar."
Later, when Marie is wearing gauze eyepatches and being wheeled out to the adjoining parking garage by her teenage son, DiGeronimo leans down to tell her, "It will swell up for four days and you won't look pretty. When you heal, then you're going to look pretty." A few days go by, and her puffy eyes are hidden by Jackie-O-type sunglasses when she comes in for laser surgery to remove some wrinkles near her mouth. Two weeks later, she says of the eye surgery, "It's made a big difference." But despite all the work done, she still feels she doesn't look quite young enough. Now she's thinking about having a face-lift, and DiGeronimo, it's fair to predict, doubtless will be glad to provide it.
Joan, who's 50 years old, has just had her face-lift. A day after the doctor has made incisions behind her ears to tighten the skin all over her face, she is sitting in the examination room with her 53-year-old friend Terry, who had her own face-lift and nose job six months ago. Joan wears sunglasses and a scarf to hide the scars, bruises, and swelling. "I work out at the gym four times a week, I stay in good shape, and I never had a problem being the oldest person there until I noticed my face was starting to deteriorate," Joan notes. "I always had confidence, and then I felt this nervousness when I was dealing with people. Mentally, I needed it [the face-lift]." Her boyfriend and children all told her she didn't need the operation.
Besides, she observes bleakly, "Youth is moving up." She's the oldest person in her sales office, but, she confides, "They don't know how old I am. With my age and experience and credibility, I can sell better." And yet she still needs to look younger, she believes, to succeed at work. She's taken a vacation from her job, and when she returns she hopes her colleagues will think she just looks refreshed. She also feels the change will help her in another marketplace: dating. "I don't know if I'll be with this man forever," she points out, "so I want to look my best."
A little over a week later, she's very pleased with the results. The stitches have been removed and the healing is well under way. "I feel great and I look terrific," she says. "It cost me $5700, and it was absolutely worth it."
For DiGeronimo such responses from patients are gratifying. "When I see someone smile, it gives me a sense of fulfillment," he says. But his practice also doesn't hurt his handsome lifestyle. Still, he insists, "I'm not into it for the money." Indeed, he argues, "It's not more lucrative than any other surgical practice."
At an earlier point in his career, however, the doctor saved lives, not just faces and egos. (Admittedly, a small percentage of his practice involves more than a patient's vanity -- for example, removing skin cancer growths.) Reared in a Boston suburb as the son of the town's leading dentist, DiGeronimo always knew he wanted to go into a medical field where he could work with his hands. "I could always fix things," he says, and even today he spends his spare time carefully restoring antiques. He was accepted into dental school but at the last minute decided to apply to medical school. He says because it was too late in the year to get into an American school, he went to Mexico's Universidad Aut centsnoma de Guadalajara to learn medicine.
It was as a resident at a few different New Jersey medical schools that he discovered his flair for surgery, and today, when he's asked about what cases he's proudest of, the one he mentions first happened more than twenty years ago, back when he was a resident. A man had been stabbed in the heart and actually was clinically dead when DiGeronimo and a fellow resident opened up his chest A even before they entered the operating room. DiGeronimo desperately began massaging the man's heart and restored the flow of blood. Then they went into the operating room, where he sewed up the wounded heart.
"What we do now is not as heroic," he admits, "but I satisfy somebody and fulfill a need."
Although he was skilled and fast, he says, general surgery was too emotionally draining for him. When a fellow resident told him about the advantages of plastic surgery, he was intrigued. "It was great working on healthy people," he learned. "You could do creative things, and you could operate when you want." By 1978 he was enrolled in the University of Miami's respected plastic surgery program under the tutelage of Dr. D. Ralph Millard, Jr. DiGeronimo was a star in the program, according to Dr. Tim Alexander, a graduate fellow at the time who now has a local practice; after completing the UM program, DiGeronimo started his own practice in 1980.
Although his specialty isn't as respected as other surgical fields, DiGeronimo never wavers in his belief in the importance of plastic surgery to his patients. "The truth is nobody really needs cosmetic surgery," he admits at the end of another busy workday, as he removes stitches from a patient who has had eyelid surgery. "It's something you have to really want, like a new blouse." The patient concurs. She's so grateful she's brought DiGeronimo a teddy bear as a gift, a tribute to his skills.
He's reminded, too, of his craftsmanship in other ways. A few of the people he's operated on work in the office every day, adding an aura of Stepford Wives-style unreality to the place. When an imposingly beautiful DiGeronimo staffer pokes her head inside the room where the doctor is taking a lunch break, he notes with pride after she's gone, "She's been worked on from head to toe." He ticks off the procedures: liposuction, breast augmentation, tummy tuck, nose job. In the world of artificial beauty, practice makes perfect.