It is Friday night in Rasht and the young are out to see and be seen. The girls' scarves are so far back they are defying gravity, and the definition of covered. Make up is thick, and many a nose has the tell tale sign of a recent remodel. For Rasht is probably the nose job capital of the world.
It was initially in Esfahan that I became aware of the phenomenon. I kept bumping into a guy with a white plaster on his nose at every turn on the street. I was sure he was following me but it was only later that I realized that they were in fact different people, something that I had assumed was too much of a coincidence. But in Iran more than 100,000 people a year go under the cosmetic surgeon's knife, many of those for a new hooter, and customers are increasingly men.
Whereas in the West we would normally lie low for the few weeks that our new noses are healing or cunningly get it done under the guise of a 'sinus' operation, in Iran it is something of a status symbol and people are quite happy for you to see their new schnozzles in the early stages of recovery. In fact it is said that some people keep the plasters on for far longer than is necessary just so you can see they've had it done.
I am walking through the trendy area of Rasht, with Hamidreza, a graphic designer I met at a party in Tehran. He lives in Rasht, a natural stopover on the way to the beautiful village of Massuleh and offered to have me to stay at his parent's house. He seems to know everyone around town and we meet friends for coffee and scout the trendy boutiques containing fake designer clothes – and 'original fakes' which are fakes made in Turkey rather than in Iran.
Then I'm invited to one of his friend's English classes where I talk to the students about life in England and Dubai. Many of them are looking to leave Iran at least for a few years, and England, perhaps only because I am there, appears to be one of the top destinations. They fire questions at me but have to fight to be heard against their teacher who talks constantly and rapidly in his version of English, which is almost unintelligible. I wonder that his students have picked up any English at all under his tuition.
Back at the house the mother insists on making me eat like a grandmother feeding an only grandson she hasn't seen for years.
'Pass him the cake, Hamid'.
'I'm fine thanks, we had a late lunch'.
'Well would he like a chocolate? Maybe he doesn't like chocolate. How about nuts? Hamid, he must eat something…dates? What would he like for dinner?'
Dinner, eaten soon after lunch, is an amazing spread of Rasht specialties which we enjoy with the rest of the family and, being a guest, I am given copious platefuls of it all. I am safe in the knowledge that the spirit of Iranian hospitality is alive and well, even in the north.
Over dinner I broach the subject of nose jobs and I salute the deft workmanship of the Rasht surgeons who have clearly been very busy. Then admire the lovely natural noses of the extended family – before Hamid quickly changes the subject - perhaps some of those on display around the table aren't quite as natural as I had thought…
It was initially in Esfahan that I became aware of the phenomenon. I kept bumping into a guy with a white plaster on his nose at every turn on the street. I was sure he was following me but it was only later that I realized that they were in fact different people, something that I had assumed was too much of a coincidence. But in Iran more than 100,000 people a year go under the cosmetic surgeon's knife, many of those for a new hooter, and customers are increasingly men.
Whereas in the West we would normally lie low for the few weeks that our new noses are healing or cunningly get it done under the guise of a 'sinus' operation, in Iran it is something of a status symbol and people are quite happy for you to see their new schnozzles in the early stages of recovery. In fact it is said that some people keep the plasters on for far longer than is necessary just so you can see they've had it done.
I am walking through the trendy area of Rasht, with Hamidreza, a graphic designer I met at a party in Tehran. He lives in Rasht, a natural stopover on the way to the beautiful village of Massuleh and offered to have me to stay at his parent's house. He seems to know everyone around town and we meet friends for coffee and scout the trendy boutiques containing fake designer clothes – and 'original fakes' which are fakes made in Turkey rather than in Iran.
Then I'm invited to one of his friend's English classes where I talk to the students about life in England and Dubai. Many of them are looking to leave Iran at least for a few years, and England, perhaps only because I am there, appears to be one of the top destinations. They fire questions at me but have to fight to be heard against their teacher who talks constantly and rapidly in his version of English, which is almost unintelligible. I wonder that his students have picked up any English at all under his tuition.
Back at the house the mother insists on making me eat like a grandmother feeding an only grandson she hasn't seen for years.
'Pass him the cake, Hamid'.
'I'm fine thanks, we had a late lunch'.
'Well would he like a chocolate? Maybe he doesn't like chocolate. How about nuts? Hamid, he must eat something…dates? What would he like for dinner?'
Dinner, eaten soon after lunch, is an amazing spread of Rasht specialties which we enjoy with the rest of the family and, being a guest, I am given copious platefuls of it all. I am safe in the knowledge that the spirit of Iranian hospitality is alive and well, even in the north.
Over dinner I broach the subject of nose jobs and I salute the deft workmanship of the Rasht surgeons who have clearly been very busy. Then admire the lovely natural noses of the extended family – before Hamid quickly changes the subject - perhaps some of those on display around the table aren't quite as natural as I had thought…
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