I Got Eyelid Surgery For All The Wrong Reasons - And Now I Want To Change Other Parts Of Myself

Renée Zellweger and Blake Lively had hooded eyes like mine - then had them surgically corrected. Here's what inspired me to hock my engagement ring for new lids, which then made me hate my neck.

Hi cutie-pies!

You may recall that (a.k.a. take pity on me because) I am Corynne-less – though that’s just for the moment, thank goddess. Being on my own here means I am a little less than prolific these days. (By the way, when I grow up, I want to be as productive a one-woman show as Sari Botton.)

But I do have this gem for you today (and of course, a few more great things for you coming up over the week). It is from our amazing contributor and comment-generating machine Amanda Jane - I don't even know if she wants to be called Amanda Jane anymore, but she asked me to once and I love it (of course), so I'm sticking with it until she tells me to shut up. I also love that we have another AJPT subscriber named Amanda June. (Takeaway is only that I think about you guys all the time, if you couldn’t already tell.)

What you don’t know yet is that Amanda Jane is not only a well loved AJPT contributor, she is also one of the five AJPT Beauty Editors who will each be posting here to see who wants and fits that position. Remember that? So you'll be seeing her first Beauty Editor post, along with others from four super different candidates, over the next couple months. The others already know who they are, but I haven't announced them here yet. (I'm not even sure why I haven't – maybe element of surprise?) I am also still looking for one more DEI candidate, to make a round six contenders but actually because it would be nice to try a guy in the role. If you have any ideas for that (or anything else), email me jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com.

It seems kind of perfect to announce Amanda as a Beauty Ed contender now, because her thoughtful and revealing post today turns out to be looks-related. (She and I made the assignment without putting that together, but it's a good happenstance. Did I say happenstance?)

And the last thing I will say before you go and enjoy this piece is that I love the way Amanda so openly expresses her feelings on this vulnerable topic and I hope you will do the same. I myself don’t relate to many of the motivations here - but our differing takes are part of what makes all of these personal stories and your responses to them so interesting. I’m guessing many of you will relate to Amanda and either way, let’s talk about that and catch up on everything else too in that always surprising spot called the comments section. See you there!

xox Jane!

[Massive thanks to my daughter Charlotte and her boyfriend Jack for building this image above for me. -Jane]

By Amanda Jane

Your teeth aren’t white enough. You have dark circles under your eyes. You have wrinkles on your cleavage because you sleep on your side. Your hair is frizzy, and needs to be straighter. Your face is aging unattractively. You need to blend your makeup better. Your nails are weak. Your eyelashes are pale.

If you had a friend who told you one or more of these things, you’d be offended, right? What if they made all of these comments to you within a span of three months? This wouldn’t happen, you say. I would never keep a friend like that, you say.

This photo was taken in January 2024 in NYC. My friend Michelle, visiting from Florida, unintentionally inspired me to get eyelid surgery. She has the most beautiful eyelids, doesn’t she? Seeing the contrast in this photo - hers against mine - influenced my decision. Looking back, it’s just a bad photo of me. Still, it inspired me to go under the knife.

But what if I told you that you do have such a friend, someone who would and does make these types of criticisms? In fact, it’s the person you spend most of your time with, the one who you listen to the most, the go-to girl you never go anywhere without? Who is this so-called friend? It is you!

“Unfortunately, I am not one of those I’m-the-only-one-who-needs-to-approve-of-myself-and-everyone-else-can-go-fuck-themselves people. I’m more the whenever-I-see-myself-in-a-photo-I-didn’t-pose-for-I-want-to-kill-myself person.”

I just scoured my Amazon orders from the last three months. Judging from the appearance-improving purchases I’ve made within this time frame, I have convinced myself of all of the appearance-critical statements I made in my initial paragraph. And this is only from an audit of my Amazon cart. I’ve also, during this time period, spent money on Botox, hair highlighting, brow waxing and – I don’t even want to know what else. And I certainly don’t wish to add up how much all of this has cost me. And the really crazy part? I’m not a high-maintenance woman, when compared to most. In fact, if you look at me, you probably think I simply wake up, run a brush through my hair, throw on some comfortable-looking clothing and call it a morning. Well, looks like the jig is up for me. I’m not as cheap a date as I appear to be.

Is it just my fear of aging, of becoming just another middle-aged, invisible woman, that propels me to purchase products promising physical improvement and age defiance? And what or who do I need to stay young and beautiful for? Is it for myself, for the man I am currently dating, the men I am not dating, friends, coworkers, my daughter, the construction workers I was once offended by for hollering at me and am now equally offended by for not? And do any of these people actually care about my post-slumber cleavage wrinkles, or the fly-away hairs that always seem to make an appearance, no matter how heroic my effort to tame them?

Likely, not. Most of what I do to enhance my appearance is for me, not for others. Unfortunately, it’s not because I am one of those I’m-the-only-one-who-needs-to-approve-of-myself-and-everyone-else-can-go-fuck-themselves people. I’m more the whenever-I-see-myself-in-a-photo-I-didn’t-pose-for-I-want-to-kill-myself person. This is obviously an exaggeration, but not as much as I would like it to be. Because the truth is, like many women, I am ultra critical of my looks. Especially when I see skin hanging in places it didn’t used to, the beginnings of age spots on my arms, hands with creasing that no amount of lotion will ever be able to hide again.

And it doesn’t help that Instagram and other platforms feed off of my insecurities. I used to have a rule – once upon a time, when collagen was something I still took for granted – that if an ad makes its way to me without my searching for it, then the product needs me more than I need it. What has changed? Why am I now clicking on ads for things like – Oh, how I hate to admit this – neck tape. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have recently been watching videos of women gathering up the loose skin on the back of their necks with clear tape in order for the front of their necks to appear less wrinkly. Forget what Shakira said about hips. It’s necks that don’t lie these days! I have been tempted.

But here’s the thing. I’ve been single and dating for two years after twenty years of marriage. I am grateful to have made my debut in the dating world as a reasonably attractive and physically fit person. And maybe it’s not just potential partners that I’ve attracted with my looks. I have a ton of friends, and make new ones easily. I’m liked and looked up to at work. When I smile at random people, they smile back. There’s a good chance that none of this would be true if I looked like, for example, Sloth from Goonies.

“Every time I saw myself in a mirror or photo, I was instantly envious of everyone who didn’t have hooded eyelids. Even my mom, sister and daughter had normal lids.”

These days, people meet people via the apps. And although there are prompts one answers to attempt to disclose what’s on their insides, these services are photo-based and, therefore, what’s-on-the-outside-based. A great personality is a plus, but a nice smile, decent blowout and mustache and unibrow wax can certainly mean the difference between a right swipe and a left one.

When I was 42, six years before my divorce, a plastic surgeon informed me that I had “hooded eyes” during a routine Botox appointment. “Have you ever considered getting your lids taken care of?” she said, adding literal insult to injury as she administered the painful forehead injections.

Instead of resuming my life as usual, I went from total unawareness of this “problem” to awareness of nothing but this problem every time I saw myself in the mirror or in a photo. I was instantly envious of everyone who didn’t have hooded eyelids. Even my mom, sister and daughter had normal lids. Why had God had been so cruel? Had I been a horrible person in a past life? Or had my former incarnation been blessed with beautiful eyelids yet thoughtlessly took them for granted?

I took this selfie in February 2024, weeks before the surgery, to send to my ex-husband Jon, while we were still speaking to each other occasionally. He didn’t and doesn’t like to see photos of my face, post-divorce. I hid behind this book so he wouldn’t have to see my whole face, while explaining that I was finally getting the surgery he had wanted me to get.

Eyes are deemed “hooded” when excess skin hides the eyelid crease, giving the appearance of eyelid-less-ness (not a word). Women like me once took heart that beauties such as Renée Zellweger and Blake Lively had hooded eyes, but deflated again after learning that these celebrities had them surgically corrected.

As much as I was bothered by what I had grown to believe was a physical flaw, I did not undergo a blepharoplasty, the surgical removal of excess eyelid skin. The recovery from this procedure seemed daunting. Plus, my (now-ex-) husband was staunchly against it. If anything had gone wrong, I didn’t want to contend with the “I told you so” aftermath.

“My eye bruising was so impressive, Mike Tyson would have been proud to take the credit.”

But two years ago, soon after my divorce, I surprised myself by calling the same Florida plastic surgeon who had opened my eyes (pun intended) to the issue and scheduling the procedure. Now living back in my hometown of New York City, I immediately headed to the Diamond District where I sold my engagement ring for $5000, the exact price of the blepharoplasty.

One month later, I was in Florida, sleeping in my friend’s spare bedroom, a bag of frozen peas on my forehead, with eye bruising so impressive, Mike Tyson would have been proud to take the credit.