Disney is a global cultural force. But in China, the Chinese population—not the company—sets the trends. At Shanghai Disney Resort, the most beloved character isn’t Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck, or princesses like Ariel or Belle or Elsa, but instead LinaBell, a pink fox. For The Dial, Lavender Au writes about the culture of Disney in China, and how, in the ’90s, Disney invested heavily in the country and had big expectations, but ultimately, the formula for success in Asia is much different than in the US. “Disneyland is popular in China,” Au writes, “but not in the way that Disney intended.”
Disney spent more on Shanghai Disneyland ahead of its grand opening in 2016 than it did on Disney World. The Florida theme park, which opened Magic Kingdom Park in 1971, cost $400 million to build, which is equivalent to $2.2 billion at the time that Shanghai Disneyland began construction in 2011. Shanghai cost $6 billion to build, according to Iger.
LinaBell’s success has bucked the Disney formula. The long-held belief was that characters or brands need stories to be successful. But in China, no-back-story LinaBell is arguably the brand’s greatest success. For a lot of people, she is what you go to Disneyland for.
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As a child with large ears and prominent teeth, I was far from immune from the threat of bullies. Bullies latch onto a person’s most obvious weakness, and physical characteristics that differ from the perceived image of perfection make for excellent targets. Facial features, body shape, hair or skin color—the more obvious, the better. It’s little wonder that many of us have grown up with lasting insecurities concerning our physical appearance. But never before have so many people sought medical intervention to address those insecurities. The cosmetic surgery industry is worth nearly $60 billion, and increasing yearly.
The reasons behind this are manifold: the steady advancement of medical techniques and the concurrent fall in the cost of procedures; a burgeoning surgical tourism industry; the ubiquity of social media (essentially visual in nature) and online porn (ditto). But we’ve also been thrust into an inescapable relationship with our own image. From Zoom meetings to photo-packed smartphones, we’re confronted with ourselves daily, and psychologists are noticing the results.
For me, what leaps out from the pieces collected below isn’t just the normalization of cosmetic surgery—with patients routinely likening it to dieting—but the normalization of extreme procedures. Getting your ribs trimmed, having your shoulders or legs broken and reshaped, or being implanted with objectively oversized testicles (seriously) may assuage that tiny voice in one’s head, but they may also leave you in a far worse situation than when you started.
Oddly enough, there’s a parallel here with the current hand-wringing over the rise of artificial intelligence. Once out of the box, it’s extremely difficult to put something back, especially when people are growing rich from the profits. Cosmetic surgery has its undeniable benefits, of course—for burn victims, for amputees, for those born with restrictive conditions—but it seems that we can’t have one end of the spectrum without the other. (AI, in fact, is set to play a large part in the cosmetic surgery industry of tomorrow.) As with the impact of AI, what the eventual landscape will or should look like is a matter of fiery debate. Do we need strong, international regulation and a limit on available uses? Will future generations not know life without augmentation? Are we simply overreacting? No matter which side of the fence you sit on, these stories provide fascinating insights into the world of extreme surgery as it stands today.
Those of us of a certain age grew up with the well-worn trope of women asking their partners, “does my bum look too big in this?” Nowadays, that concern has reversed itself: large, prominent buttocks are desirable. This isn’t of itself new—in the ’90s, Jamaican women took “chicken pills” to attain the so-called “Coca-Cola bottle” shape. What’s changed is the breadth of the ideal. One obvious reason lies in the form (excuse the pun) of Kim Kardashian, whose rise to prominence mainstreamed callipygian ideals long before her 2014 Paper photo shoot introduced that woeful bit of hyperbole known as “breaking the internet.”
As we know, what constitutes the perfect body varies over time and place, and will continue to do so. Whatever the cause, big butts (and I cannot lie) remain firmly in fashion. Combine that with daily assaults on women’s self-confidence through all manner of channels, and it’s no surprise that the Brazilian Butt Lift—whereby fat from the belly, hips, lower back, or thighs is surgically transferred to the buttocks—is in great demand. Tragically, the procedure is also among the most dangerous: fatalities occur regularly.
As you’ll glean from this wonderful article, it’s not just women who seek BBLs. The number of men undergoing surgery may be considerably smaller, but is rising quickly. Financially, it makes sense for would-be recipients to travel to countries such as Turkey, which has rapidly become a cosmetic surgery hub, but with the cheaper prices come more relaxed regulations. Despite the pain, despite the fatalities, the BBL is a procedure that gains popularity year after year. Beauty cycles being what they are, at some point the “ideal” image will change and the industry will move on. Perhaps we’ll go back to ”less is more.” Whatever happens, it’s important to try to understand the individual stories and the personal motivations of those who feel compelled to risk their health, even their lives, in a quest to obtain the perfect derriere.
Even if the surgery goes ahead without complication, British patients travelling can suffer multiple complications. “The biological time for a wound to heal is six weeks,” Dr Stefano Cortufo, who runs a clinic in Harley Street, tells me. Patients are expected to wear a body compression suit—or faja—for at least that amount of time, if not longer, and cannot sit or apply any pressure to the site of surgery for at least two weeks.
“That is the minimum time that doctors and patients need to be together. If I operate on you, you need to see me every week for six weeks.” Sitting on a plane for hours, days after an op can put a patient at risk, he says. Indeed, a quick search on TikTok and YouTube shows women going straight to A&E in the UK, suitcase in hand, after stepping off the plane. One was admitted with sepsis, a life-threatening infection. “The NHS is full of people coming back with infections,” Cortufo says.
Designer Parts (Melanie Berliet, The Atlantic, April 2012)
There are two types of FGCS (female genital cosmetic surgery, not to be confused with gender confirmation surgery): vaginoplasty (tightening tissue for enhanced sexual pleasure) and labiaplasty (reshaping labia purely for aesthetic reasons). The author of this frank and, at times, cringingly humorous piece, Melanie Berliet, understandably focuses on the latter, asking why many women are willing to pay thousands of dollars to reshape an area that is hardly ever on display. To try and answer this question, Berliet takes the admirably brave step of exposing herself (literally) before one of the many surgeons who offer this procedure. As a heterosexual man, I can honestly say that I do not have, nor have ever had, any concept of what the ideal female genitalia should look like. Sadly, there are men out there who do fixate on such things. Perhaps the more interesting question is why? Berliet posits a link to the ubiquity of online pornography, a connection that feels as disturbing as it is obvious.
“Fifty-nine hundred bucks for a tighter vagina,” I muse. Internally, I consider what else I might buy with that kind of disposable income if I actually had it. Fifty hour-long hot stone massages! A dozen tickets to The Book of Mormon! A lifetime supply of Bazooka gum!
“Well, if you do the vaginoplasty and labiaplasty simultaneously, we charge $9,900 for what we call vaginal rejuvenation.”
As a 2023 paper in the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association unsurprisingly revealed, “[h]air loss causes many men significant psychological distress.” After all, male baldness has been associated with lower social status as far back as the 17th century. The first-ever hair transplant was undertaken in 1952, but surgical intervention dates back much further: in the 19th century, surgeons used a technique known as the “scalp flap,” which doubtless was as grim as it sounds.
By the age of 50, 30-50 percent of men will have experienced some degree of balding. (As I write this, I am steadfastly refusing to look in the mirror.) I can empathize all the more, then, with Rudi Zygadlo, the author of this piece, whose hair loss began at the age of 18, and who has taken the increasingly common step of traveling to Turkey for treatment. It’s a booming industry but, like any invasive surgery, should not be taken lightly. Zygadlo writes with an endearing honesty and narrative panache, revealing insecurities most of us would rather not share. Nor does he shy away from providing gruesome details—eight hours under the knife, with plenty of gouging and scraping, plus 50 injections directly into the scalp. Happily, for Zygaldo, the pain was worth it.
Obviously I’ve known about hair transplants for years, but I thought the window had long passed for me; I’m too far gone, I can’t afford it. I have also avoided Googling all things hair-related because I know how quickly one’s algorithm turns into an obstacle course of triggering adverts.
But, six months ago, a good and fellow-afflicted friend encouraged me to have a WhatsApp consultation with an outfit in Istanbul that he visited for a third of the price of UK equivalents. I know Jamie has done boatloads of research; unlike me, he has tackled the problem head-on and now flaunts a resplendent mop. I trust him. I have the consultation and, assured my situation is salvageable, I get a quote and mull it over. It’s now or never. Hiding is exhausting. Either embrace what I have or take a punt with the Turks. I book.
It should come as no surprise that the penile enlargement industry is experiencing sustained growth. (Fill in your own joke here; I’ve already written and deleted a half-dozen of them.) Historically, women’s looks have come under far more scrutiny than men’s, and they’ve been subject to higher levels of insecurity as a result, but if there’s one area in which men are particularly susceptible to self-doubt, it’s the size of their genitals. Recent studies suggest that just under half are dissatisfied with the length of their penis.
Here, in a ProPublica investigation co-published with The New Yorker, Ava Kofman brings sensitivity and tact to the true tale of “Mick,” one of an increasing number of men going under the knife in search of extra inches. It’s a gruesome story, and one which advocates caution. One of the surprising revelations is the woeful lack of regulation when it comes to genital implants. That said, there are many questions we could ask of Mick, whose lack of preparation and research might seem astonishing, but Kofman is never judgemental, instead teasing out the humanity and emotion with which we can all empathize. Indeed, it’s impossible not to feel for him. Be warned, though; the graphic descriptions are not for the faint of heart.
The basic operation would cost $15,000—roughly half of Mick’s life savings—though he added in a pair of discounted testicular implants, at seven grand more. He put down a deposit, told his long-distance boyfriend that he was taking a work trip and, on a sunny morning in September, arrived at Elist’s office, in Beverly Hills. A framed copy of the GQ story—cover line: “We Have Huge News About Your Manhood”—hung on the wall of the exam room. Elist strode in, directed Mick to drop his pants and rolled Mick’s scrotal sac appraisingly between his fingers, as though it were a piece of fruit at a market stall.
You may have never heard of “gymceling,” “jelqing,” or “mewing,” but chances are you might soon. As if women didn’t already have enough reason to fear men, the rise of the incel (involuntarily celibate) movement surely represents one of the most disheartening and dangerous subcultures to have sprung from the internet’s rotten skull. If you haven’t heard of them, I advise you to read up—but just a little, lest you lose all hope for humanity. The incels’ basic premise is that attractive women are cruel and shallow creatures who will only tolerate “ugly” men when they themselves are old and used up. Therefore the incel, who is not conventionally attractive, finds himself at a distinct disadvantage, which is solely the fault of said beautiful women. (The incel’s double standard in only desiring conventionally attractive partners is neatly sidestepped in such thinking.)
For a fascinating and disturbing cinematic tale on this subject, watch John Frankenheimer’s 1966 cult classic, Seconds, starring John Randolph as Arthur Hamilton, a middle-aged man who longs for a new life, and the great Rock Hudson as the man he becomes. Fair warning: Seconds contains one of the most brutal endings ever committed to celluloid.
One sector the incel phenomenon has been good for is cosmetic surgery, with an increasing number embracing face and body altering surgical techniques to transform themselves from “beta” males to “alphas” or “Chads.” Those with such a mindset are all too easily entrapped by grandiose promises of physical enhancement, and can find both brotherhood and easy enticement on TikToks and online forums that amplify and bolster their opinions. If your entire worldview, your whole sense of self-worth, revolves solely around your looks, set in relation to Hollywood hunks, the chance of transforming yourself into the latter must seem far too good an opportunity to pass up. Here, we have another tale of a surgeon who is literally operating without moral responsibility. This article presents a compelling account of what happens when these two worlds meet.
Eppley’s not sure exactly why a patient would want testicles of dinosaur-egg size. But that’s true of many of his procedures, which he tends to design in response to patients’ requests. If his practice had a slogan, it would be “We don’t care why you want it,’’ he tells me. “And I suspect patients seek me out because they know I won’t ask them. I don’t see it as my job to cast a judgment.”
Chris Wheatley is a writer and journalist based in Oxford, UK. He has too many guitars, too many records, and not enough cats.
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Lydia Davis reflects on and describes the rare and singular experience of finding herself in total darkness while out in the country one evening—a feeling of expanse and quiet she now craves.
I also thought more carefully, after that experience, about what darkness feels like. In describing deep darkness, I want to use words like velvet or soft or blanket. Is that because darkness conceals the edges of what we see in light? The room I am in, illuminated by daylight, has many edges in it—not only the hard edges of the furniture but also the softer borders of a rug or the lines where the walls meet each other and the ceiling. A forest, though it is, in season, full of soft-seeming foliage, is also striped by the vertical hard trunks of the trees. Even the vast, billowy body of water that is the ocean is defined by the straight edge of the horizon. Absolute, unbroken darkness feels like one massive, enveloping substance, though it is not a substance and is not palpable. It feels close to the face, right up against the face.
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Why did our ancestors draw on cave walls—in the dark? Izzy Wisher takes a fascinating look at the possible psychology behind cave drawing, and how it reflects the way we think to this day. Once she invites you to imagine yourself in a cave, you will be captivated: “You’re standing in a cave, tens of thousands of years ago.The damp, earthen smell mixes with the warm smoke from your firelit torch and saturates your nostrils. The muted silence is broken only by the subtle crackles of the fire and distant drips of water that echo around the space.”
What we do know is that during the Upper Palaeolithic (c45,000-15,000 years ago), our distant ancestors ventured deep underground to make these images. In these unfamiliar environments, they produced a rich display – from unusual abstract forms to highly detailed renderings of animals – under the dim glow of firelight cast by their lamps. Naturalistic animal outlines, rows of finger-dotted marks and splatter marks preserving the shadows of ancient hands remain frozen in time within the caves, representing tens of thousands of years of people returning to the darkness to engage in art-making.
This curious, yet deeply creative, behaviour captures the imagination. Yet as Jean Clottes – a prominent Palaeolithic art researcher – succinctly put it, the key unanswered question for us all is: ‘Why did they draw in those caves?’
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As Ann Neumann notes in her latest for The Baffler, morphine is the only reliable source of pain relief for those in palliative care, yet restrictions imposed in the aftermath of the opioid crisis have reduced demand, making the drugs less profitable for drug companies to produce. Shortages have meant that many people the world over are dying in needless pain. Neumann delves into the history of opioids, reminding us that the war on drugs is a failure, harming addicts and those who need pain relief most.
Truly facing and addressing addiction requires a new vocabulary—and accepting that “say no to drugs” is an inadequate response. It also requires an examination of far-reaching economic and social challenges in our culture: lives of despair, racial prejudice, economic insecurity, isolation, inaccessible health care, expanding police forces and prisons, and, of course, politics.
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An Italian woman named Antonietta spent her last years in a care home, with no visits from anyone that knew her. But she was not friendless. So why was no one in her community informed of her whereabouts? A heart-wrenching story of a woman, quite literally, lost in the system.
But those feelings soon gave way to sadness and bewilderment. Antonietta always wore her dentures in public, her friends said. She took pride in her appearance. Why didn’t she have her teeth at the senior home?
And why had her friends and neighbours been left in the dark about where she was?
“It was cruel,” said Eileen, adding Antonietta might have still recognized her, or just have been happy that someone came to see her.
“Everybody needs a visitor. Everybody needs a friend.”
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Danielle Elliot gives a brutally honest account of her battle to conceive in this fascinating piece for The Guardian. With vials of sperm selling like hotcakes, the road to finding the right donor is an arduous one.
The pandemic added unforeseen pressure. With lockdowns and contact-tracing requirements, it became hard to recruit donors. California Cryobank raised prices in 2021 in an effort to slow sales, as they feared running out entirely. Brian Hyde, its director of sales, told me last year that one donor’s 30 vials had sold in 30 seconds. “There was a three-month hiatus, March, April, May of 2020 where we were selling next to nothing and then from June until November it was insane. It was crazy. Being here and being part of it, it was crazy. We were selling more vials than I’ve ever seen before … If sales didn’t slow down we would have run out of donors to sell.” California Cryobank had more than 550 donors available when the pandemic started; by December 2021, the number had dropped to about 200. Hyde said that in January the company had added more vials than it sold for the first time in three years.
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