I was always told that I was the spitting image of my father. I had his dark blond hair, his fair complexion, his blue eyes, and yes, his nose. It fit his face just fine, on me it looked ridiculous. I hated my nose and I complained about it to anyone who would listen. My friends thought I was crazy, and my family told me that I was beautiful.

My big nose was my only source of despair during that blissful eighth grade year. It wasn't until that summer, however, that I became obsessed with my nose. The person responsible for this was someone I thought was my best friend.

I recall arriving home from a vacation and checking my telephone messages. The first two were from my boyfriend and from a friend calling to ask how my trip was. The third message was much, much different. I remember hearing the nervous voice utter quickly and almost in a whisper "Big nose bitch." Then, click...the annoying hum of the dial tone. The words stung my ears, and I fought back tears as I replayed the message over and over again, just to make sure I had heard it correctly. I recognized that nervous voice. It was a familiar voice, offset by a slight lisp that I had grown up giggling about and trying to duplicate. It was Michele's voice.

I remember hearing the nervous voice utter quickly and almost in a whisper "Big nose bitch." Then, click...the annoying hum of the dial tone. The words stung my ears, and I fought back tears as I replayed the message over and over again, just to make sure I had heard it correctly.

Michele had been my closest friend since I was 4 years old. We were inseparable throughout our childhood, and our friendship only grew stronger as we matured. She was like a sister to me.

In middle school, though, Michele and I had started hanging out with different crowds, and by the end of our eighth grade year, we hardly spoke. She knew that I was very self-conscious about my nose. She was one of the people who had told me that I was crazy when I complained about it so I couldn't understand why she would say such a thing. Granted, we weren't as close anymore as we once were, but I never would have thought that she could say such a thing to hurt me the way she did. In fact, I don't know what bothered me more: the words Michele actually said, or just the fact that she said them. Nevertheless, I was devastated. I remember thinking, "If Michele says I have a big nose, then everybody must say I have a big nose." I remember looking in the mirror and seeing the ugliest girl alive. I vowed I would fix my nose at the first chance life offered me.

My family wasn't surprised when I said that I wanted to get a nose job. They told me they didn't think it was necessary and tried to discourage me from considering surgery. My mother even told me to be patient. She said that eventually I would "grow into" my nose, and it would fit my face perfectly. I demanded that I be allowed to fix it when I was old enough. I was only fourteen at the time and had plenty of time to wait. Not a day went by that I didn't dream of the new nose.

When high school started, the luck I experienced in junior high was gone. I was now faced with the average teenage dilemmas: my complexion worsened, I was moody, I often fought with my family, I gained some weight, and I was depressed. I stayed home instead of going out with my friends because I was afraid of being seen by anyone. I avoided bright light at all costs. I walked with my head down and I even stopped using mirrors for nearly two years. I hated the reflection I saw. I hated myself.

I thought that if only my nose was smaller, things would be better. I began hounding my mother to allow me to get the operation and she relented. I remembered reading in a magazine that most doctors prefer not to operate on teenagers until after they've completed their growth spurt around age 16 or so. I began counting the days to my sixteenth birthday and anxiously awaited my new, improved nose, and even more important, the new, improved me.

Before I knew it, it was January, 1992. My mother scheduled an appointment for me with Dr. Geoffrey Tobias, an otolaryngologist -- a doctor for problems of the ear, nose, and throat.

I can recall sitting in the waiting room. I was nervous and excited at the same time. My mother and I glanced at the "before and after" photos that were displayed. I was wondering exactly what would result from this consultation. Would I actually be able to go through with the operation? What would I look like?

Dr. Tobias, a man in his mid forties, was very friendly and made me feel very comfortable. He examined my nose closely, touching and poking at various parts, and explained that, in addition to having a hump on my nose, I also had a deviated septum. This meant that the dividing wall between the air passages in my nose was crooked. Dr. Tobias assured me that both problems could be fixed with surgery. All he needed was a decision from me. Almost without thinking, I answered that I wanted the operation done. I wanted to be rid of the nose that had brought me such embarrassment and shame.

Small incisions would be made on the insides of my nostrils, and the skin covering my nose would be lifted, exposing the bone. The bridge of my nose would then be shaved down a little, then broken and reshaped, and some cartilage would be removed from the tip of my nose, which would define its shape.

"We need to schedule a date for the procedure...how about June 23?" he asked, flipping through his thick date book. June 23! I was shocked! I thought I would have to wait months and months before I could even think about surgery, and here he was, telling me it could be done by the end of June. Glancing at my mother, who nodded in approval, I confirmed the date: June 23, 1992. A day that would change my life forever.

Dr. Tobias went on to explain the specifics of the operation. I would be put under a general anesthesia and would have to spend the night in the hospital. He also described the exact procedures involved. Small incisions would be made on the insides of my nostrils, and the skin covering my nose would be lifted, exposing the bone. The bridge of my nose would then be shaved down a little, then broken and reshaped, and some cartilage would be removed from the tip of my nose, which would define its shape. I would experience some slight pain, swelling, and bruising, all typical side effects of the surgery, and I would be in bandages for over a week. Because all of the work would be done from the inside, I would not have any scarring from the procedure. I winced as he calmly explained the details. I knew in my heart this was something I had to do for myself, no matter how scared or nervous I might have been.

In addition to being slightly nervous about having my nose broken, the cost of the operation worried me. Dr. Tobias required a deposit of $1,500 the day of the operation, plus the costs of my hospital stay, the anesthesiologist, and various other fees. However, Dr. Tobias' fee was considerably less than other surgeons. According to the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons, in 1992, the average surgeons' fees were approximately $2,825, over $1,000 more than Dr. Tobias' fee.

I worried that I was putting unnecessary financial stress on my mother, a single parent. She told me not to worry and that she would find a way to pay for everything. "I know how much this means to you, and I want to see you happy," she said. "If a nose job will make you happy, then I want you to go ahead with it. We'll figure something out." I cannot describe how grateful I was and still am today that my mother supported me in this important decision. I remember thanking her after we left Dr. Tobias' office. I felt like she was giving me a chance to finally be happy with myself. She was helping me become the person I wanted to be: confident and self-assured.

Before I knew it, I was packing for my overnight stay at the hospital. I recall the day of my surgery almost perfectly. I remember checking in, being brought to my room, and being given several pamphlets on rhinoplasty. I read the pamphlets over and over again, and thought to myself, "In just a few hours, I'll be in the operating room." I never had an operation before, and I was afraid that I was going to wake up in the middle of it. My mother tried to ease my fears, and told me there was no way I could wake up, but I stayed uneasy.

I was watching television with my mom and grandmother, when a nurse entered my room. She carried a white gown, a cap, and a package of needles. She gave me the gown to change into, and the second I stepped into the bathroom to change, I started to cry hysterically. This was really happening, I was really going through with this operation. I stumbled out of the bathroom, my legs wobbling, with tears streaming down my face. My mother and grandmother tried to console me.

Then I was given a shot of Demerol to calm me down. The huge needle the nurse used did nothing to help. As I laid there, on the thick mattress of the hospital bed, I continued to cry. I watched the clock, counting each minute, until I heard a tapping at my door. A nurse named Eric had come to bring me to the operating room. I watched him wheel in this long, metal stretcher, and suddenly, my uncomfortable hospital bed seemed pretty cozy. I didn't want to go. I was so afraid.

Eric scooped me up and placed my trembling body on the stretcher. He covered me with warm blankets, and told my mom and grandmother to follow us. I cried as he wheeled me down the endless hallway. Doors flashed before my eyes, through my tears. I watched the room numbers get smaller and smaller. We passed the nurse's station, and they smiled at me. I had never been so scared before.

Finally, Eric brought me to a hallway just outside the operating rooms. My mom and grandmother held my hands, and tried to calm me down. Then the nurse came over to me. She asked why I was crying, why I was so upset. "I'm scared," I sobbed. "I'm afraid I'm going to wake up in the middle of it." She reassured me that I would not wake up. "If you even begin to stir, we'll drug you right back up," she said with a laugh, "Now it's time to go." I mumbled a tiny "see you later" to my mom and grandmother, who looked at me with tears in their eyes. They waved, and turned to walk away.

The nurse pushed my stretcher through two big doors into a wide hallway. The doors were numbered, and we stopped at door number three. I watched the end of my stretcher push open the door. The inside of the operating room looked like it was right out a movie. It was very bright, and everything was green. Several nurses stood around the operating table. Together, they lifted me off the stretcher and placed me down on cold, black vinyl. I looked up into a huge, bright light. I looked to my right and saw the anesthesiologist, setting up my I.V., gathering several tiny, thin needles together, and taping them to my hand. I looked to my left to see a tray of shiny, silver instruments, all waiting to attack my flesh. I was shivering; it was freezing in that room. One nurse placed several heart monitoring electrodes on my chest and back and then covered me with blankets. I was still crying.

Just then, Dr. Tobias entered the room. He was dressed in green scrubs and was wearing rubber gloves. He had a few more tiny instruments with him, and he placed these on the tray next to the others. "Why are you crying?" he asked. "Your new nose is going to be all red!" I managed to smile a little, but as I felt the anesthesiologist insert a tiny needle into my hand, my fear overcame me once more. "I can't do this, I just can't!" I shouted. "Calm down, you're going to be fine," said Dr. Tobias. A nurse then placed an oxygen mask over my face; I mistook this for the anesthesia and pulled the mask off my face. "No, I don't want it like this. I want it from a needle!" I sobbed. "I don't want to breathe it in!" "It's only oxygen, Nina. You're getting your anesthesia right now," said the anesthesiologist. I glanced at the needles in my hand and remembered hearing that when you're given anesthesia, you're told to count. By the time you count to three, you're asleep. I looked up at my anesthesiologist and asked, "Do you want me to count now?" "No, you don't have to count," he replied.

I woke up in the recovery room about a half hour after my surgery, which had taken nearly three hours to complete. I couldn't see anything and my face was very cold. I didn't realize I had huge ice packs over my eyes. When I touched my face and felt the ice packs, I tried to take them off. The attending nurse wouldn't let me. "You have to keep those on," she said. "They'll help keep the swelling down." She brought me back to my room, but I was very confused. I didn't feel very good, my face was cold, my head was achy, and my throat was rough and scratchy. I asked for my mom until finally I heard her say, "I'm right here, Neen, I'm right here next to you." The soothing sound of her voice comforted me, and I was no longer afraid.

My family decorated my room with balloons and flowers, which I didn't see until I was able to remove the ice packs from my eyes. I felt a little better, but I couldn't open my mouth very much, and I was incredibly groggy. I slept on and off for the rest of the day. I could not breathe through my nose, which was packed with some sort of cotton. It felt as if someone had glued my nostrils shut. After hyperventilating a few times during the night, I figured out how to control my breathing and managed to get a few hours sleep.

Here's Nina after the nose job.

The next morning Dr. Tobias came back to remove the packing from my nose and to release me from the hospital. Having the packing removed was very painful, but I felt even worse when I looked at myself in the mirror for the first time. My eyes were black and blue, my face was swollen, and my nose and cheeks were swathed with bandages. Dr. Tobias told me to be patient and that the side effects would subside speechless. I couldn't believe my eyes! "I love it!" I screeched, "It's perfect! I can't thank you enough!" I could tell Dr. Tobias was just as pleased as I was.

The reactions I received because of my new nose were tremendous. My family and friends couldn't believe how different I looked and how perfectly my new nose fit my face. I felt like a superstar, like a completely different person. I felt like I could be confident again.

Over five years have passed since that fateful day in June. Sometimes I almost feel as if my surgery was all a dream. In the beginning I checked my new appearance every chance I got. Sometimes I would look to see if my old nose had grown back. The novelty of my new nose, though, wore off a long time ago. Still, there are times that, even now, I glance at my nose and giggle, remembering what it used to look like.

The fact that I've had a nose job has been quite a conversation piece. Most people are amazed that my nose is not the one I was born with. People are also surprised that I had the surgery at such a young age. I always say that they would've gotten rid of that huge nose, too, at the first possible chance.

I often hear complaints about plastic surgery like it is unnecessary and places too much emphasis on physical appearances. I even hear how dangerous it is. These opinions anger me and present only one side of the story. In my opinion, if there is something about yourself that you are unhappy about and there is something you can do to fix it, why not do it? Why be miserable if there is a solution to your problem? Having plastic surgery was probably the greatest gift my mother ever gave to me. If I had to do it over again, I would, despite all my fears and whatever pain I went through.

I almost have to be thankful to Michele for leaving me that message years ago. In a sense, she gave me the boost I needed to make the most life changing decision I've ever made. Perhaps I should think of her every time I pass a mirror and smile.

I think I might.