My sympathy for men as a group is not exactly overflowing. It is a leaking tap, at best.

But Clavicular got to me.

Until a month ago, I knew nothing about him. Then I read an essay about how far he had taken looksmaxxing, and since then he has occupied a teeny tiny corner of my mind.

Like, there are books I should be thinking about and vegetables in my fridge living out their final days, but here we are smh

The man keeps putting himself through surgery after surgery while the internet gathers around him, ready to nitpick.

And every time he reappears, someone finds a fresh defect.

The jaw is too much, the nose is going to be too tiny once the swelling goes down, the old face was better, yada yada.

People say these things casually, between one scroll and the next, but he seems to read and absorb all of these comments seriously before deciding it’s time to change something again.

The easy reading here is vanity but that cannot possibly be all of it. At least to me.

He seems to want a face so approved, so beyond criticism, that nobody can wound him through it anymore.

And as much as I want to and as hard as I try I cannot bring myself to mock him, even though the material is right there.

Because women know the foolishness of this dream that he has and we have entertained it ourselves, often against better sense. We have believed, for a few weak minutes before a mirror or a photograph, that if the body could only be brought into order, life might become less hostile.

We have learnt to keep the cost out of sight, too. We make the whole business look like taste, good upbringing, or a sensible skincare routine. All the while tucking the fear behind habit.

But Clavicular, poor man, has no such talent for concealment.

He makes the whole affair look as ugly and as heartbreaking as it always was.