Surgeon Harris Zavrides

Plastic surgery is the most artistic form of medicine, one Nicosia practitioner tells THEO PANAYIDES

On one wall of Dr Harris Zavrides’ office at the Nicosia Polyclinic – on the left as you come in, opposite the profusion of diplomas and certificates bearing witness to courses and seminars with titles like Face, Eyelids, Ears and Nose – is a big silver mirror. I don’t know if Harris and his patients stand in front of that mirror, pointing out what needs to be done (probably not; it’s surely more professional to take them into the adjacent consulting room), but I like to imagine the patients themselves standing in front of the mirror while waiting for the doctor to arrive, dreamily fingering the less-than-perfect features – jug-ears, crooked noses – which they’ve hated for so long, and which soon (so they hope) will be history. Harris Zavrides is a plastic surgeon.

We speak just a few days before the 3^rd International Plastic Surgery Course, a two-day seminar that took place at the University of Nicosia, organised partly by the Harris Zavrides Plastic Surgery Centre. Aimed at plastic-surgery professionals from across the globe, the Course advertised itself as an all-round experience: Day 1 (open to the public) offered a live link-up to an actual face-lift in progress, while Day 2 (for participants only) was a “hands on human cadaver workshop” enabling actual practice, albeit on dead people. Those who think it sounds a bit disgusting clearly haven’t been paying attention – because plastic surgery, in all its grisly glory, has been firmly in the mainstream for years now. There’s even a smash-hit TV show called Dr. 90210, a reality series following the (real) lives of plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills, complete with footage of “procedures”.

Plastic surgery is big in Cyprus, says Harris. The Cyprus Society of Plastic, Reconstructive and Aesthetic Surgery (of which he’s the Secretary) counts 16 members – quite a lot for a small country, especially when you consider that the Society is only the top tier; “as in every profession” there are also charlatans and less-qualified practitioners, he admits, urging people to check the Society’s website before selecting a doctor. Harris – who’s worked in Japan and Brazil, as well as studying in Athens under his “mentor” Dr. Andreas Foustanos – insists that “plastic surgery in Cyprus is as good as anywhere else in the world”, at least in the aesthetic/cosmetic sector (reconstructive surgery needs more resources, like a special unit for burn victims). We even have cases of plastic-surgery tourism, people coming to Cyprus specifically to change their unsightly bits.

Has it all gone too far? Not at all, he replies; don’t forget that “people have always been concerned with their appearance”. Cleopatra used to bathe in asses’ milk, while the first-ever nose-jobs apparently took place in what’s now Afghanistan (the mind boggles). Plastic surgery is merely a case of technology having caught up with an age-old human craving; “Just because someone was born with a crooked nose, that doesn’t mean they have to die with a crooked nose”. Operations usually take a couple of hours, and might cost anything from €1,000 to €5,000; the most popular procedure in Cyprus is currently the face-lift. 80 per cent of his patients are women, he confirms, though the proportion of men is rising fast.

Harris himself is thin and pale, with bags under his eyes – trying to organise the upcoming course must’ve taken a toll – and straight black hair around a balding dome. He speaks very softly and slowly, his answers crisp and businesslike: he answers every question then stops, never rambling. Like many doctors, being in constant contact with human neediness and vulnerability seems to have created a sense of necessary distance; he comes across (on the admittedly skimpy evidence of a half-hour conversation) as reserved and a little mysterious, his arms folded in defensive posture for much of our interview. He won’t give his age, admitting only that he’s in his 30s, nor – despite repeated prodding – will he divulge much about his personal background, vouchsafing only that there weren’t any doctors in his immediate family. All I can glean is that his father used to be in a profession that involved being transferred from place to place – teacher? soldier? cop? – which we only know because Harris himself was born in Limassol (where his Dad was posted) but the family comes from Paphos.

In a way, the reticence is understandable – because a plastic surgeon, even more than most doctors, needs to keep himself out of the equation. This is the only branch of medical science where a patient comes to the doctor (at least in cases of cosmetic surgery) without actually having to, where the patient isn’t motivated by ill-health but simple vanity. The relationship between doctor and patient is a delicate one; the surgeon must appear not just skilled but also understanding, non-judgmental. He’s not just a doctor – he’s also, to varying degrees, a psychologist, a priest, even an artist.

A plastic surgeon has to be a doctor, of course. I ask, slightly mischievously, whether other doctors tend to look down on plastic surgeons – since they don’t practise ‘real’ medicine – but Harris (unsurprisingly) assures me his profession commands respect. For one thing, the training is rigorous – six years for a medical degree, another six for the specialisation. Besides, his work isn’t just about appearance; almost all cases of “aesthetic” surgery also correct medical problems.

“If a woman has really big breasts, for instance,” he explains – smartly reversing the stereotype of bimbos coming to the doctor seeking breast implants – “she might find them causing many problems. Back pain, dermatitis, excessive sweating, chest fissures, psychological problems because she can’t dress as she wants to, pain because she’s carrying something heavy. Now, if this woman goes to a plastic surgeon and he makes her breasts smaller and firmer, that also solves all the other problems… We don’t distinguish between corrective and aesthetic surgery.”

A plastic surgeon is also a psychologist. Every case begins with a consultation: “We talk about it,” says Harris, “and only perform the operation when there’s a reason”. Sometimes people want the impossible (“Plastic surgery can’t perform miracles”). More often, they want to change their appearance as a substitute for tackling more deep-rooted problems. A simple example is liposuction as a short-cut to weight loss, which Harris decries: “Plastic surgery can’t help an obese person, it just removes fat from specific places and gives shape to the body”. More worrying are the people who believe they can solve relationship troubles through plastic surgery, or those who “think that a misfortune in life, or a personal problem – a disappointment in our personal life – will be solved through an aesthetic procedure”. There are even cases of people becoming obsessed with changing their appearance (Michael Jackson, anyone?), coming back again and again for no reason.

Granted, such cases are rare. “People in Cyprus are very mature,” claims Harris, not entirely convincingly – but you do have to wonder how often he’ll discourage a patient, especially since (as he admits) “everything is relative”. If a woman asks for “excessively large breasts”, or a person “thinks their nose is crooked, when it’s actually fine”, those in theory count as extreme cases where a procedure isn’t warranted – but it’s also true that those people are the ones having to live with their body, and a nose that looks fine isn’t really fine if it bothers its owner. “If we realise that a person is indeed bothered by something, and plastic surgery can offer solutions, then we go ahead with the procedure,” admits Harris.

A plastic surgeon is something of a priest as well – in the sense of a confessor, because of course he can never divulge whether a patient had an operation, and perhaps also in a deeper sense. “Essentially, plastic surgery is directed to our inner world,” he says, meaning that it aims to achieve peace of mind through external changes. There’s an interesting philosophical side-question here, because Harris believes in God and also assures me (twice) that he believes in Fate – not the fatalistic concept of Kismet, where you just sit around waiting for things to happen, but a feeling that “every person who’s born carries within them their destiny” and that “some things are Written, and will happen”. He believes it was largely his destiny to become a plastic surgeon – but then how does he reconcile that belief with the actual job, which is based on changing people’s destiny? Aren’t small breasts and crooked noses among the tools we’re born with? Isn’t his work in effect changing the work of God?

Obviously, he doesn’t see it that way (self-improvement can never be incompatible with destiny or religion, he says) – but maybe that conflict is what finds its expression in the other important aspect of Harris Zavrides, namely his artistic streak. “Personally, I believe that plastic surgery is first and foremost an Art-form, and only then a medical specialisation,” he asserts. “I’ve always liked Art in all its forms, whether it’s dance or music. And I believe I like what I do”. A plastic surgeon – it appears – is also an artist.

Slightly surprisingly, this pale, businesslike man has a burning interest in “anything that contains a form of Art”, plays the trumpet when he’s not moulding bodies with his scalpel, and still recalls Aliki Vouyouglaki’s final stage appearance in Athens 15 years ago. Does he regret having ended up in the world of face-lifts and tummy-tucks? “I believe I could’ve done other things as well as what I do,” he replies carefully, “and certainly music and dance are something I’d like to get involved with”. Still, he’s clearly in the most creative branch of medicine – “because every case is different,” as he puts it. “Every day you make something different. We never make the same nose twice, each nose is different, so each operation is different. And of course your work is visible.”

But not too visible. That’s the final paradox in the work of a plastic surgeon – that his act of creation must also be an act of self-effacement. The best cosmetic surgery is the one that doesn’t show, he says, the work of the Artist being to paint himself out of the picture. He may be exaggerating slightly – for one thing, plastic surgery that doesn’t show is almost unheard-of, even in the exalted realm of Botox-ed Hollywood stars like Meg Ryan and Nicole Kidman – but the point is made. A plastic surgeon must soothe, appraise, be creative, change your life, then make himself invisible at the end of it all. No wonder he seems so reserved.

Any final words? “Women must trust their surgeons,” instructs Harris Zavrides, momentarily betraying the memory (I suspect) of wealthy airheads asking for Jordan-style breasts, or middle-aged matrons wanting to look like Michelle Pfeiffer. “The plastic surgeon isn’t guided, he guides. That’s our job”.

And what about his own features? I enquire (a question I’d been planning before I actually met him). Is there any ‘procedure’ he’d like to have done to his own face or body? But I should’ve known better than to try and extract that kind of info from a plastic surgeon.

“How do you know, my dear Theo,” he asks slyly, “that I haven’t already done it?”