Doll

“I’ve felt prettier,” she said as she curled her synthetic eyelashes—horsehair? vinyl? what was it? the texture was alien, even through her curler—and looked back into the mirror.
“This is what you requested…”
“No, I know, it’s just—I don’t know. It looks right, but I’ve felt prettier, you know?”
“I see.” With that, the surgeon turned his back and walked towards the door. “Well, I’ll leave you alone with it for a bit. Maybe you’ll get used to each other.”
She would have seen the door slam in the mirror if she hadn’t been so focused on the new plastic gloss of her cherub cheeks. The fingertips of her left hand rolled slowly, softly over the faux-porcelain curves of flesh and wiped across the rosy red blush, and when her gaze finally averted from the mirror, it took to her hand where not a trace of make-up could be seen. Looking back in the mirror, there wasn’t the slightest sign of smudging or fading on her second, painted face.
But she couldn’t see her first face, beneath the latex rubber plastic silicone polysomething artificial new one she’d paid quite handsomely for, in permanence, and she never would again.

(at least she knew she’d always be a doll)