As one of the only Jewish girls from my hometown who still wears her original nose, I’m taking it a little personally that Ashlee Simpson has parted with hers. To have a distinct nose that doesn’t detract from one’s face—indeed, a distinct nose that actually accentuates one’s face—is a rarity. Ashlee Simpson was that rarity, and she just threw away a lifetime of interesting.
This is not to say that nose jobs are never justified. My two best friends growing up were Natasha and Elanit. Elanit was the first to get a new nose, and her face was grateful for it. Natasha was next, and her face thanked her, too. But one day I bumped into my third cousin Helen, whom I hadn’t seen in years, and I noticed her nose for the first time. I noticed it because it looked too familiar. “Wait a second,” I thought, “That’s Natasha’s nose.” What was Helen doing with Natasha’s nose? Then at the mall, it was like déjà vu: one girl after another walked by wearing Natasha’s nose. Jews do all look alike! I thought. I eventually found out that they all just went to the same surgeon.
Soon after Natasha got her nose done, she approached me and said, “Well, Jul, you know what you have to do. Elanit did hers, I did mine; now it’s your turn.”
“Oh, I don’t plan to change my nose,” I answered.
“You’re kidding,” she answered incredulously.
“No, I don’t think it ruins me.”
“Did my nose ruin me?” she said with some indignation. I examined her face closely and thought, “Nah, I guess it was something else.” But I answered: “Yes.”
What an odd question, though. Presumably, the only reason one would undergo nasal reconstruction is if she believed her nose had a ruinous effect.
Comments about my nose didn’t come just from friends. When I decided I wanted to be in movies, the first thing industry people told me I’d have to do was “fix the nose.” Even when I was interviewing for my first New York waitressing job, a waiter was gracious enough to tell me that he had just overheard the owner—a former “Miss Subways” title holder and small-time model/actress—mutter, “Pretty girl. But she needs to get rid of that nose.”
Fortunately, I was mature beyond my years (and, I guess, theirs) and took the “meant to be” route. I couldn’t help but feel that my nose was in some way an accentuation, and would ultimately pay off. I wasn’t sure if God existed, but I figured he knew best (though not with Natasha and Elanit). Eventually, I was rewarded.
At 22, something magical happened: I grew into my nose. Meaning, the features sorted themselves out finally and began to mesh—so that my nose no longer stood out, but instead contributed to a overall distinctive, elegant look.
Among the most captivated were men, at least two of whom had an unusual opening pick-up line: “Don’t ever change your nose.”
“Excuse me?”
“People will tell you to change it. Don’t listen. It gives you a look. You have a look to you.”
Which of course reminded me that I had a big nose, and so I sent these guys on their way. (Even if a woman likes her prominent nose, she doesn’t want to be reminded it’s there.)
My nose got some other affirmation along the way. There was Rebecca from acting class, who told me how she’d awoken from anesthesia in the middle of her nose job—just in time to see the mallet descend on her face and hear the crush of breaking bone. Studying my face, Rebecca exclaimed, “But I don’t get it—you … you’re beautiful! How do you carry it so well?”
Which is what I wanted to talk to Ashlee about. Because she reminded me of me. Only with a better nose. Hers never ruined her profile. While other girls have to take their noses off, we were able to pull ours off. Even with her old nose, Ashlee was prettier than her sex symbol sister.
Did anyone—her family, her handlers—try to tell her she was making a mistake?
Ashlee was special. Even when she went blond, she stayed special—thanks to that distinctive nose. She wasn’t interchangeable with all the other pop starlets. But now you can’t tell her apart. Maybe interchangeability is the whole point today; it seems to be more marketable than the few originals we have floating around. (Save, thankfully, for Jewel, who never gave up on her nose.) It may be a cliché, but Ashlee’s nose gave her character.
Unlike myself—for whom it would have been understandable to succumb to the advice of people in show business as I tried to break in—Ashlee had no excuse; she already was somebody. She had managed to achieve fame with a prominent nose. To a made star, no kind of nose can be an impediment, and this makes Ashlee’s choice all the more frivolous.
When the superficial people engrossed in tabloids at the checkout counter are calling you superficial, that’s pretty bad. The next time I hear Ashlee’s hit song “Pieces of Me,” I know I won’t be the only one missing one piece of her in particular.
Do you have a New York story?
E-mail nystories@nypress.com
