Moving Into My New Face
17 Hours of Surgery, I Think I’m Turning Into Celine Dion (and I fucking hate Celine Dion)
It’s about day 17 now since the surgery. Yesterday morning, I had the stitches taken out from my forehead and behind my ears. That was a relief. The hospital were very happy with my progress so far. I’ll be back one last time around the 30th for sign-off, and then that’s it—done.
At some point I’ll write a full piece promoting the team who did this work. They deserve all the credit in the world. Thai doctors might be reluctant about that sort of publicity, but I’m not. My mantra: look at my face. If you want one like this, go see this guy. Whether he likes it or not, that’s what I’ll tell people.
Pattaya Calling
Rather than linger around Bangkok (where I was being far too naughty, hello Patpong Market, dancing, kissing strange girls, thank you Katy Perry, I liked it), I decided to escape south to Pattaya. Two hours in a private car, and I was dropped at the Hilton. Honestly, it might be one of the nicest hotels I’ve ever stayed in. The lobby, the pool, the view, the room, totally spectacular.
My plan was wholesome: rooftop bar on the 32nd floor, something small to eat (I’m paranoid I’ve put a couple of lbs on after 3 weeks here), a little stroll up and down the strip, and then home like a good little girl. So I caked myself in concealer, determined to hide the worst of the surgery bruises and swelling. For the first time, I tried to get a sense of what I might eventually look like.
Eye makeup is still a puzzle. Before surgery I piled it on thick “look, I’m trans and I’m trying” but now I think I can be subtler. I’ve a lesson booked with a makeup artist once I’m back home. Hopefully she can teach me how to work with this new real estate above my eyes.
I snapped a quick photo before heading out. And my first thought? Oh fuck. I look like Celine Dion who I hate, musically speaking. But as my surgeon warned, the nose and jaw are the slowest to settle. Right now, my tip still looks like a swollen reservoir. Months to go yet.
Jordan Deschamps-Braly in August told me that within a week you’ll already love your forehead and eyes. True. But he also said most patients are still disappointed with their nose and jaw at three months. Six months later? Nearly everyone’s delighted. So, patience. I’ll accept a temporary Celine in the hope of a Barbie-nose future (yes, that was literally written on my FFS quote, it made me laugh).
A Night on the Strip
Back to the Hilton rooftop. I ordered wasabi squid (enormous but delicious), a Negroni, then a Malbec while the sun went down. The DJ was brilliant, but nobody was dancing or looked like they were going to. All I wanted was to boogie.
So I left and walked up the strip. It’s astonishing, bar after bar, each full of women enticing men inside. Most are cis, a few are trans. When our trans eyes meet, we give each other a little smile: “hello European cousin, hello Southeast Asian cousin”. A sweet moment in the chaos.
But the further I walked, the sadder it felt. One side street in particular, 400 metres of bars with women in “team colours,” full of leering western men punching massively above their weight. As someone who’s lived as a man, I now see it through a woman’s eyes. Gorgeous young women with bodies I’d kill for reduced to this meat market.
And the men, fucking grim. The way they looked at those women was pure commodity. Not love, not connection, not even simple affection, just transaction. A sense of entitlement hung in the air, as if these girls were theirs to take. Some of the men probably even convinced themselves the women were with them because they were “someone,” not because of a wallet, but we both know the truth. That delusion made it even sadder.
It kills off any tiny flicker of interest I might ever have had in men. Online it’s the same story. LinkedIn messages from supposedly professional men asking for rubber pics, endless DMs on Reddit full of lurid filth (the kind of stuff clearly typed with one hand). I’ll even include a screenshot of one here, because it’s so bad. By comparison I’m practically prudish. Seeing all of this, I just felt overwhelmingly sad.
And then, as if the universe wanted to prove the point, I had a run-in on the way back. About 150 metres from the Hilton doors, some drunken man got pushy with me. I told him to fuck off. He laughed. I told him again. He followed me. In that moment I felt really vulnerable, more vulnerable than I’ve maybe ever felt. But layered on top of it was that old male aggression I’ve carried my whole life, the bit that knows how to square up when cornered. So about 30 metres from the Hilton entrance I turned on him and squared up: “Go and fuck yourself, you little cunt. I’m staying here. Where are you staying? Some shit rat hole? Oh and do you fucking like my Rolex” (cringe - sorry!!!). Then I slipped straight into the Hilton as he screamed a tirade of shit at me about what he would want to do to me.
It wasn’t pleasant, but it was nothing in the end. Silly bastard. I had one last drink and went to bed.
Morning Reflections
Next morning: Hilton breakfast buffet. Heaven. They even had ice cream. I resisted. I resisted cake too. Fruit and a tiny mini eggs benedict, virtue intact.
Back in my room, I cleansed, then sat staring at my reflection. That’s when the phrase hit me: moving into my new face. After the initial shock subsides, you start to really study what’s there.
The cheekbones startled me. For a moment I thought my surgeon had slipped in implants without telling me. But no—it’s just that my orbital rims are gone. My eyes now sit in smooth space, which makes the cheekbones below them pop. Unexpected, but striking.
My neck is starting to shrink-wrap around the surgical changes, though the Adam’s apple removal has left a bullfrog-sized swelling that will take time to go. And yes, Deschamps-Braly was right again—I’ve lost midface fat. My current surgeon agrees I’ll need more grafts next year, unless I opt for malar implants. We’ll see.
For now, though, I plan to be good. There’s a blue bikini in my suitcase, an infinity pool waiting on the 16th floor, and a 90s playlist that reminds me of Stevie Mark 1. That’s today’s mission: sun, water, headphones, and a grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat.
Recovery Timeline
Below I’ve added the recovery timeline I worked on with ChatGPT yesterday because if you’re reading this and facing FFS yourself, you need to know the truth. Seventeen days in, you don’t look like a perfect doll. Not yet. Different parts heal at different speeds. But it’s coming.
So yes, here I am, moving into my new face. Even if it looks a bit like bloody Celine Dion for now.
Appendix: FFS Recovery Timeline
Healing isn’t linear, and different areas of the face recover at completely different speeds. If you’re reading this and preparing for FFS, here’s a rough guide from my own notes and surgeon advice:
Week 1–2 (days 1–14)
• Forehead/eyes: already showing big changes, swelling dropping quickly.
• Nose: still bulbous and swollen, tip especially heavy with fluid.
• Chin/jaw: firm and swollen, can even look bigger than before.
• Neck/trachea: lumpiness and “bullfrog” swelling common after shave.Week 3–4 (days 15–30)
• Forehead/eyes: you’ll catch glimpses of beauty—it’s the first area to reveal itself.
• Nose: still very swollen at the tip, feels like a “reservoir.”
• Jawline: swelling subsides a little but contour isn’t visible yet.
• Bruising fading, but makeup still needed to cover surgical marks.Month 2–3
• Most patients are frustrated with their nose and jaw at this stage.
• Swelling is stubborn—still masking the refinements.
• Expect asymmetry, puffiness, stiffness, and strange sensations.Month 6
• The turning point. Nose tip swelling finally reduces and tissue reforms around new structure.
• Jawline sharpens and contour becomes visible.
• Most patients who were doubtful at 3 months are delighted by 6.12 months+
• Full settling. Scar tissue softens, swelling gone, and you see the final surgical result.
• Fat grafts (if done) have either “taken” or resorbed, and long-term touch-ups can be considered.