Perfect Height

"You see, isn't this height perfect?" the doctor said with a smile, pointing to the X-ray image. On the image, in the middle of my shin bone, there was a steel rod, like a scar that stretched across.

I stared at the steel rod. It wasn't perfect, it was even a bit ugly. But in the doctor's eyes, it represented the height I had dreamed of, the height accepted by society.

My name is A-Qiang, a man who had been self-conscious about his height for twenty-eight years. My official height is 168cm, but everyone knows that's as bloated as a squeezed-out towel. I often stand in subway cars, feeling like a sparrow blown down by the wind, easily swallowed by the crowd.

Bone lengthening surgery was like a curse, haunting me. Initially, I just saw the experiences of "leg friends" sharing their height increase stories in online forums. In the pictures, they all had model-like long legs, confidently walking under the sun. I was moved, like a sailor lured by the song of a siren.

I contacted a private clinic. The doctor showed me various success stories, all of which looked like plastic mannequins that had stepped out of a storefront window. They emphasized not medicine, but "perfect proportions." It seemed that only with perfect height could one have a perfect life.

The surgery was very painful. The pain of the bones being stretched was like a punishment for my short stature of the past twenty-eight years. But pain was accompanied by happiness. I watched my height gradually increase in the mirror every day. It felt like a dried-up riverbed finally welcoming rain.

I walked carefully every day, afraid that I would lose this hard-earned height. I started wearing new high-waisted pants, feeling like I was really different.

After a few months, I was finally able to remove the leg braces. Standing in front of the mirror, I felt reborn. My height had indeed reached 175 centimeters, a number that was enough to make me stand tall.

I began to actively participate in social activities and even mustered the courage to confess my feelings to a new female colleague at the company. Her name was Xiao Mei, a tall, bright and smiling girl. I originally thought that my "perfect height" would be a reason for her to like me.

But that day, she looked at me, her eyes not filled with surprise or admiration, but instead filled with confusion. "A-Qiang," she said, "have you done something recently? I feel like your walking posture is a bit strange?"

I panicked and explained, saying that I had just sprained my ankle. She looked at me with even more suspicion.

That night, I returned home and stood in front of the mirror again. My legs had become longer, but something felt off. I tried to walk a few steps, only to realize that my gait was stiff and unnatural.

I began to recall the doctors' confident promises before the surgery. They said it was safe and would not affect my normal life. But now my legs, although longer, had lost their original naturalness and flexibility.

I was like a puppet, pulled by an invisible thread. My height had increased, but my actions had become sluggish, and my smile had become stiff.

That day, I accidentally flipped through a magazine and read an article that said anxiety about height stemmed from society's morbid pursuit of "perfection". I suddenly understood that in pursuit of the so-called "perfect height," I had lost my original self.

I stood by the window, looking at the city's neon lights, feeling like a misplaced part, struggling to turn in a gear that didn't belong to me.

The next day, I decided to return to the clinic and ask the doctor to remove the steel rods in my legs. I would rather go back to being the original me, the 168cm-tall A-Qiang, who could move freely.

The doctor didn't seem surprised by my request. He pulled out a contract, filled with various terms and conditions. One of them stated that no refunds would be given after surgery, and the subsequent surgery to remove the steel rods would require an additional fee.

I looked at the contract and suddenly felt a sense of powerlessness. It turned out that in pursuit of "perfection," I had already fallen deep into the trap they had set.

The doctor still smiled kindly. He pointed to a poster on the wall with a tall model on it. Below the model, it read:

"Perfection is always on the way."

I looked at those words and suddenly felt a wave of irony. The "perfection" I was pursuing was just an unattainable lie. And I was just a pathetic footnote to that lie.