I adore Madonna, but I can't make my feminist peace with her facial work

I recently spent time interviewing private medics who specialise in aesthetics for clients of high net worth. The first half of their mission is to get you almost obsessively thin; the second half is to offer you cosmetic treatments to replace the fat you have lost by getting too thin. Balance out the newly gaunt face with fillers, replace the lost boobs with implants, reshape the scrawny bum into a curve, as long as the waist stays tiny.

And so it goes on, like a Soviet worker being asked to metaphor to breaking point, into a Potemkin village of how an ideal body should be seen. It’s a lucrative game.