Whenever I found myself stuck in one of life’s big dips, I could count on my ever-loving mother’s familiar refrain, “In case of emergency, break nose.” And while she didn’t 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 family’s longtime dermatologist, Arnie Klein, for the names of the top nose-job docs in Hollywood. Arnie was the man, the crypt keeper of every star’s secret. I left his office with the numbers of three doctors handwritten on the back of his business card.
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