Plastic, as you know, is very much out. I refer in this instance to single-use plastic, which is jamming up our lakes and oceans, in turn poisoning our delicious fish, in turn poisoning us. Girls (and boys), listen up: the only single-use plastic you ought to have in your life should be in that little square of foil nestling in your clutch (or wallet).

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But that doesn’t mean we must be averse to every form of synthetic.

Just the other night at Vea lounge, I overheard a group of 20-somethings appraising the appearance of other bar patrons in the most vulgar way imaginable. As you’ll know, I’d just flown in from Milan that morning, so I was hardly in the mood for the coarse banter of strangers – but these sorts of people insist on making their business your business.

Anyway, the gist of the “conversation”, such as it was, revolved around other girls in the lounge, and whether they had “had any work done” – meaning whether they’d had cosmetic surgery. “Do you think those are real?” one asked. “No way they’re real,” another hissed, “they’re fake. They’re quite literally leaping out of that Chanel … whatever it is.”

I stifled a snort into my foraged negroni. That dress wasn’t Chanel! Any juvenile sea urchin could see that it was a Versace! And besides – “real”? Well, let’s get metaphysical about this, shall we? If we do indeed live in the realm of the corporeal (forgetting for a second what dear Elon has been saying about us all being part of a simulation), then the bronzed orbs that just sailed past most certainly existed. Was she born with them? Oh I don’t know, isn’t that a different question? Honestly, it was hard to tell in this light. The better question is, did she look magnifique? You bet your balconette bra she did.

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I suppose one could say getting a little work done here or there is somehow “cheating”, or go further and raise the Marxist argument that having such procedures is a form of “pay to play” – but then what isn’t? Everyone’s gaming the system, given it’s the system we have. I routinely “game the system” with my Louboutins, or with a new set of extensions by Mousse Amis of Covent Garden. Aren’t we just talking about other types of extensions?

Ironically enough, it’s all immaterial: I don’t think many of those making the argument against cosmetic work are doing so for political reasons – honestly darlings I think it’s just pure bitchiness. And that’s coming from me, Queen B (I-T-C-H)! (B with an Itch? Ok, on second thought that sounds ew.)

These same girls turn right back around at me and say: “Oh, but we’re not judging her, we’re just saying it shows a lack of self-esteem.” Oh, is that what you’re saying? If that’s the case, shouldn’t we try to be a little more understanding? We weren’t all born Narcissus’ little sister.

And there are plenty of other reasons for having a job done – especially when it comes to boobs. What if a test came back showing BRCA1 and BRCA2 and something drastic was required? (Girls, trust me, Google these if you have no idea what I’m talking about.)

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You might say it doesn’t bear thinking about – but you’d be wrong.

The point is, darlings, it’s none of your gahddamt beeswax what another woman desires to do with her body. Whether she chooses to make it a temple, a detached with 30 acres and stables, or a theme park, it’s all up to her – and it’s all up to you how you deal with that.

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