Jennifer Grey - Out of the Corner: A Memoir

Whenever I found myself stuck in one of lifes big dips, I could count on my ever-loving mothers familiar refrain, In case of emergency, break nose. And while she didnt exactly say those words, the message was implied. So when I was still waitressing at twenty-five, unable to land the kind of parts I was auditioning for, she suggested, and not for the first time, that perhaps I should ask our familys longtime dermatologist, Arnie Klein, for the names of the top nose-job docs in Hollywood. Arnie was the man, the crypt keeper of every stars secret. I left his office with the numbers of three doctors handwritten on the back of his business card.

I went to the first consultation with my mother, always eager to offer her support. I had those butterflies from the promise of a silver bullet, the possibility that I could somehow look like a better version of myself, the version I saw in my head. But along with that nervous excitement was a soul-sickening dread.

We were ushered into the doctors lair by a waxen-faced, eerily pretty woman who spoke to me in the kind of hushed tones usually reserved for requesting sexual favors. The consultation would take place in what looked like a sumptuously designed living room, or a private bungalow in the Beverly Hills Hotel. Everything about the plush experience was curated to make you feel like the luckiest person in the world.

The surgeon, his starched white doctors coat buttoned up to his Herms tie, made an entrance and wasted no time zeroing in on his plan of action. It would be necessary to break the nose, reset it, shave down the bump, then define and minimize the nostrils.

Whats wrong with my nostrils?

People can see right into your nose. He drove home his point with the corroborating evidence of his trusty vanity-sized three-sided mirror.

I guess I could see what he meant.

But I kinda like my bump, ya know? I looked to him to agree with me. How could he not? If someone likes something about themself, isnt it somehow unethical for a plastic surgeon to disagree? So, I was wonderingis there any way you could just fine-tune it so I could be a little easier to cast, maybe a bit more photogenic? But you know, still look like me?

He smiled ever so slightly. Trust me. You wont like the bump when its in a different context.

I didnt know what he meant by a different context, but I guessed he meant my bump wouldnt work in the new landscape he was envisioning for my face. I felt myself fighting back tears. He stood up, a busy man on a tight schedule. Well, thats what I would do. I think youd be very happy. My two-hundred-dollar consultation was over.

The second doctor was more of the same.

Both times, I left shaken, and completely dismissed the way of the knife as preposterous and unsavory. While it was seemingly very effective for some people, it was not going to be my way. I tucked that business card into a small pocket in the back of my Filofax for the next few years.

I had always felt my nose needed protection, like a kid sister who regularly got bullied on the schoolyard. I was my noses keeper. It had survived my teens, when the other girls were modifying their profiles in time for their bat mitzvahs. I had been resolute, determined that it was my job to love myself as I was. By the time I was twenty-nine, I was a little long in the tooth to be still grappling with this inane issue. Plus, it was unfathomable, actually looking for trouble, to have a change of nose after becoming famous.

Oh, and, yeah, I had become really fucking famous.

After Dirty Dancing, I was Americas sweetheart, which you would think would be the key to unlocking all my hopes and dreams. Well, thats what I had anticipated, too. But it didnt go down that way. For one thing, there didnt seem to be a surplus of parts for actresses who looked like me. My so-called problem wasnt really a problem for me, but since it seemed to be a problem for other people, and it didnt appear to be going away anytime soon, by default, it became my problem. It was as plain as the nose on my face.

So a few years after Id met those first two doctors, I finally said uncle and did the thing Id been resisting for a good part of my life. I went to see the third doctor. The granddaddy of nose jobs. He was a pioneer, seminal in his field, wrote the book on rhinoplasty. I mean, he literally wrote the definitive two-volume textbook, the bible used by every surgeon doing nose jobs. This guy was all nose all the time. Unlike other plastic surgeons, he didnt mess with boob jobs or face-lifts. He was known for reconstructive surgery, after people had been in disfiguring accidents or as a last resort after multiple failed nose jobs. He was not a demolition man but more of a builder, and based on that, I liked him already.

His office was noticeably lacking in decor. It wasnt jazzy, it was like a real medical doctors office, more dentist than spa, a departure from those other plastic surgeons offices in Beverly Hills. Everything about the place was no-frills. His office staff didnt look like call girls; they looked like real nurses, and the good doctor looked like a nondescript father figure. I was unfamiliar with this kind of man. He had no personal style. His affect, very dry and supremely confident. He was a real doctor doctor. When I walked in the room, he didnt see an actress. All I was to him was a nose. A nose that demanded his attention.

Not a huge fan of having my nose stared at, but thats what these guys do. For these hammers, every nose is a nail. They watch it move. They want to see it in action. Then they get out their nasal speculum to check under the hood and examine your septum. Of course, mine was extremely deviated. So I had that going for me, a legitimizing medical condition.

Right out of the gate I wanted to be clear about what I had come for. I didnt want to waste anyones time. I actually really like how I look. I know Im not the prettiest girl, but Im pretty enough for my purposes, and what I would want