For most of my life, the idea of plastic surgery has seemed a bizarre, almost perverse extravagance, the province of the idle rich and appearance-obsessed celebrities. But as I’ve entered my late thirties, and the lines around my eyes have grown a little deeper, my sense of distancing judgment has somewhat subsided. Not that I ever plan on having a procedure done myself, but at least I’m starting to empathize with why someone might consider it in the first place. Getting old is a hell of a scam.