I walked into the clinic with a picture and walked out with a headache

That strange waiting room feeling in Apgujeong

I remember walking toward that building near Apgujeong station on a Tuesday afternoon. It was one of those places that look more like a high-end hotel lobby than a medical center. The air smelled like expensive reed diffusers, and I felt immediately out of place in my oversized hoodie. I had been obsessing over my chin for months. It felt too short, or maybe just receding enough to make my profile look weird whenever I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window. I had saved up about 4 million won, hoping that would be enough to cover the chin implant surgery I had read about on some anonymous forums. The receptionist didn’t even look up from her monitor for a full minute, which honestly made me feel even more nervous about why I was there in the first place.

The consultation that went in a totally different direction

When I finally got into the consultation room, I had my phone ready with a screenshot of someone who had the exact jawline I wanted. The doctor was fast—almost too fast. He didn’t even really look at the photo I held out. Instead, he started tracing lines on my jaw with a plastic pen, muttering about ‘bony projections’ and ‘implant shifting risks.’ He brought up things I hadn’t even considered, like how an implant might eventually cause bone resorption over the years. Suddenly, the simple idea of just ‘fixing my chin’ turned into a technical lecture about general anesthesia and whether I might actually need a sliding genioplasty instead. I walked in thinking about a quick implant and walked out wondering if I was just overthinking my face entirely.

Why I decided to go home and do nothing

The price estimate they printed out for me was closer to 6 million won once they added the CT scan fees and the post-op care packages. It was a lot more than my initial 4 million won budget. I sat in a cafe near Sinsa for almost two hours afterward, just staring at my own reflection in a darkened window. The more I looked, the more I couldn’t decide if my chin was actually the problem or if I was just tired of seeing the same features every morning. The doctor had been dismissive of my ‘ideal’ chin, saying it wouldn’t match my facial proportions anyway. That part actually stuck with me. If I did this and still didn’t like what I saw in the mirror, what would happen next? The thought of hopping from one facial feature to the next, never feeling finished, suddenly felt more exhausting than just living with my original face.

The lingering doubt about the whole process

I haven’t gone back. Every time I see a sign for a clinic in Gangnam, I think about that office and the way the doctor looked at me like a set of coordinates to be adjusted. Maybe it’s better that I didn’t go through with it. Or maybe I’m just too scared of the recovery period, which they said would involve weeks of swelling and a soft-food diet. I still catch myself looking at my chin in the mirror when the lighting is harsh, and for a split second, I consider calling a different clinic in Shinnonhyeon just to see if they’d tell me something different. But then I remember how the whole process felt so detached from reality. It’s strange how you can want something so badly one day and feel completely indifferent to it the next, especially when the cost involves your actual bone structure.