Getting off at Apgujeong Station
It was a Saturday, one of those days where the sky was grey and the air felt heavy enough to dampen anyone’s mood. I had been obsessing over my forehead for months—specifically the flat profile that made me look tired no matter how much sleep I got. I finally decided to bite the bullet and booked a few consultations in Apgujeong-dong. Everyone says you should visit at least three places, so I planned for a busy day. I remember getting off at Apgujeong Station and feeling this weird mix of excitement and deep-seated annoyance. The streets were packed with people who all looked like they were heading to or coming from somewhere expensive. I felt a bit out of place in my oversized hoodie, clutching my phone with the map app open, checking the list of clinics I had screenshotted from a few online forums.
The reality of the consultation office
My first stop was a clinic that supposedly specialized in ‘endoscopic forehead surgery.’ The interior was pristine, almost sterile, with white marble floors that made a sharp clicking sound every time I took a step. A consultant pulled me into a small room—she was incredibly sharp, professional, and kept clicking her pen while looking at my chart. She quoted me a price range that made me wince, somewhere around 5 to 7 million won, depending on the extent of the correction. When I asked about the recovery time, she brushed it off as if it were a minor inconvenience, like getting a cold for a few days. The way she spoke felt so detached, like she was describing a minor furniture repair rather than something involving my actual skull.
The disconnect with the surgeon
Then came the part I hadn’t prepared for: the waiting. I sat in a lobby for nearly forty-five minutes just waiting for the surgeon to have a free gap in his schedule. When he finally walked in, he spent maybe three minutes looking at my face from different angles. He didn’t even touch my skin; he just used a small laser pointer to show where he would make the incisions. He was very ‘famous’ in the field, as the brochures claimed, but he didn’t seem interested in my concerns about the downtime or the potential for nerve pain. He just kept talking about the ‘ideal proportions’ and how he could give me that classic, rounder forehead shape. I kept thinking about that story where a surgeon told a celebrity not to get work done because their natural features were better. I was really hoping for that kind of honesty, but instead, I just felt like another invoice number in the system.
Walking out empty-handed
After leaving, I found myself walking toward the subway again. I felt strangely exhausted. I had brought a notepad to write down my impressions, but I hadn’t scribbled a single thing down. The whole experience felt so transactional, so clinical, that it stripped away any of the ‘transformation’ excitement I had started with. I passed a small cafe near the station and ordered an iced Americano for 5,500 won, just to sit and breathe for a bit. Looking back, I realized I didn’t actually hate my forehead that much—or at least, I hated the idea of spending a small fortune to sit in that marble-floored room again even more. I had considered driving down to a clinic in Seosan that a friend mentioned as a cheaper alternative, but the thought of the commute alone made me drop the idea entirely.
Lingering questions on the way home
I’m still not sure what to do. My friends keep telling me that ‘everyone gets something done eventually,’ as if it’s just a standard errand like getting a haircut or a dental cleaning. But after that day, the surgery doesn’t feel like a simple fix anymore. It feels like a series of inconveniences that start long before you actually step into the operating room. I’m stuck in this loop where I look in the mirror, see the flat profile, and get frustrated all over again, but the memory of that cold, rushed consultation keeps me from booking another appointment. Maybe I’ll just wait another six months and see if the feeling passes, or maybe I’ll just keep wearing my bangs a bit longer.