Scents of Self.(Norman Leaf, Rand Rusher)

A Closer Look

Could a doctor be coming to a department store near you? One woman submits herself to a plastic surgeon amid the perfumes and creams. By Judith Newman

On a cold, windy afternoon, I travel to Bergdorf Goodman in New York City to find out what is wrong with me and how much it will cost to fix it. I'd received an email from Bergdorf's public relations department: Beverly Hills plastic surgeon Norman Leaf and his surgical nurse Rand Rusher were making a personal appearance and were waiving their usual $250 consultation fee. I will learn about their skin-care line and determine what I can do to look less like the person I am-namely, a puffy and exhausted mother of three-year-old twins.

This is exciting. Leaf and Rusher are both respected and rumored to have a celebrity clientele. "I've heard their stuff is better than Nick Perricone's, even Brandt's," says one of the skin groupies milling about. She looks 30, maybe 32; what does she know from Perricone and Brandt? In fact, while there are several older, beautifully put-together women, many are in their 20s and 30s, which is nerve-wracking. Leaf and Rusher are here for only a few hours. Maybe this is like a nightclub, and they'll take only the cute girls. Suddenly I feel a little nauseated. Am I going to make the cut?

A six-foot blonde with a clipboard looks me over and says, "You'll be seeing Rand." Why? Why the nurse? Don't I rate the doctor? I knew I should have worn something different.

Then I notice something. As he talks to each of the women, Leaf holds up their jowls, opens their eyes ever so slightly, making sweeping motions like he is wielding a blade. It seems the saggier the guest, the greater the chance she will have an audience with Leaf. That's when I realize: He's the cutter, and I'm not yet ready for a face-lift! Whew.

Rand Rusher is standing with his back toward me. He is, inexplicably, wearing surgical scrubs. Is there an operating room in Bergdorf's I don't know about? I sit down on my beauty stool, and Rusher turns around to introduce himself. I'm afraid that for the next few minutes, what I hear sounds like all the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon: "Mwah mwah MWAH, mwah mwah mwah mwah." Rand Rusher is breathtakingly handsome. Like, Brad Pitt- handsome. "And I heard he's straight!" one of the salesgirls conspiratorially whispers to me later, her eyes widening in disbelief.