The shiny six-inch needle flashed, catching the reflection of harsh overhead lights. Once again, I found myself lying face up on a cold operating room table. Seventh surgery. Several weeks earlier, I visited the plastic surgeon. Escorted from the luxurious reception room, I perched on a leather exam table, legs dangling like a toddler’s. Seven scars engraved my cheeks. My lower eyelid drooped. Melanoma’s revenge. A wall-mounted TV screen scrolled before-and-after patient photos. Images of irregular noses, turkey necks, and bald heads flipped silently every five seconds. No one had scars. At least visible ones. Dr. Q entered briskly. Dressed in black scrubs, he sported a 1000-watt smile and designer…