POSTED UNDER Forehead Reduction REVIEWS
Forehead Reduction, Cateye, Midface and Necklift with Dr Besir Oner
ORIGINAL POST
Forehead Reduction, Cateye, Midface and Necklift with Dr Besir Oner
sh0rtySeptember 18, 2025
WORTH IT
How I Found My Doctor (aka My Descent into Plastic Surgery Madness)
Look, when it comes to plastic surgery, I don’t mess around. I do my research—thoroughly. And by “thoroughly,” I mean: I practically earned an honorary PhD in Instagram Forensics and Surgical Stalking. I had nothing better to do with my time (don’t judge me), and let’s be real—if I was going to spend thousands of dollars on a new face, I didn’t want to end up looking like I lost a bet.
I started my search the way any sane person would: obsessively. I dove headfirst into the rabbit hole of “Top 100 Plastic Surgeons in Turkey,” which quickly became “Top 1,000,” and then “Every Surgeon Who’s Ever Held a Scalpel in the Greater Istanbul Area.”
Cue Consultant Aylin.
The poor woman received my very first inquiry back in May—bless her soul—and has been enduring my lengthy, novella-style DMs ever since. I’m not sure if she’s my consultant or my therapist at this point. Honestly, the way I’ve been pestering her with long-winded ramblings, she deserves a raise and a bottle of wine.
Now, plastic surgery is kind of like the lottery. If you want to increase your chances of winning, you don’t just buy one random ticket and pray—you do your research, stalk the odds, and maybe light a candle or two, perform dark magic in a basement.... Except instead of picking numbers, I was picking eye shapes. And jawlines. And surgical approaches.
Turkey, by the way, is like the Disneyland of plastic surgery—except the rides are facelifts and the souvenirs are your old insecurities. The surgeons there are next-level, doing techniques Aussie doctors haven’t even heard of yet. But with every dazzling result came a horror article: “WOMAN FLIES TO TURKEY, NEVER RETURNS.” Cheers, media. That really helped my anxiety spiral.After three solid months of looking at enough airbrushed “after” pics to burn a hole in my retinas, I hit a wall. I mean, some of those noses were so smoothed out, they just… didn’t exist anymore. Like, where did it go? Did it vanish in the name of beauty?So, I switched tactics. I abandoned InstaFake and turned to the holy trinity of real-world feedback: Facebook groups, Reddit threads, and random people on the internet whose opinions I now value more than my own family’s.
Eventually, I narrowed it down to four surgeons. That's when the stalking really began. I combed through plastic surgery convention photos like I was searching for an ex in a group holiday pic—zooming in, squinting, CSI-style enhancing. My logic? If they were at conferences, they cared about staying current. Also, I needed to know who was actually investing in their craft and not just coasting on 2011 techniques and ring lights. But I wasn’t done. Oh no. I wasn’t just checking for Turkish board certification—I wanted European board certification too. And while I was at it, why not look into who studied abroad, speaks five languages, and possibly cured cancer on the side, that would be a bonus
Dr. Besir Oner
The man, the myth, the mystery. He checked all my boxes—except the internet clout one. He wasn’t Insta-famous. He didn’t post every day. He didn’t have 100K followers hanging on every BBL he did. Which immediately made me suspicious. Why isn’t this man obsessed with hashtags like the others? Was he too good for social media, or… was he hiding something? But there was one constant through this whole madness: Aylin.
Every time I started doubting or spiraling (which was, let’s say, often), I’d end up right back in her inbox. She wasn’t just a consultant—she became my sounding board, my hype woman, and occasionally, my unpaid therapist. She had a sense of humor that matched mine (bless her), and somehow talking to her felt more like chatting with a mate over coffee than arranging major surgery. In the end, it wasn’t just credentials, or certifications, or before-and-afters that sold me. It was trust, and connection, and the gut feeling that I’d finally found my people.
So That Was It.
June rolled around, I booked my flight, and started preparing for my first ever adventure to
Turkey—Operation: Fix My Mug. She was destroyed. We’re talking post-apocalyptic face vibes. When the many consultants asked what kind of medical condition I had after seeing my photos, the only honest answer I could give was:
“Stupidity.”
Not some rare skin disease or genetic disorder—just pure, unfiltered bad decision-making.It all started with those blessed hyaluronic acid pen injectors—you know, the ones they sell online and market like you can give yourself a lip flip on your lunch break. Add in some DIY threads and hylauronic acid injections from korea (because obviously, I’m not a doctor but I play one in my bathroom mirror), years of bulimia in my youth, and a collection of dental infections that decided to eat away my jawbone like termites on Red Bull…Yeah. There were reasons I looked the way I did.Some of it wasn’t even my fault—like my weirdly shaped forehead (thanks, genetics), but the rest? That was me, armed with too much free time, not enough impulse control, and a Wi-Fi connection.In short: I didn’t just want plastic surgery—I needed a facial redemption arc.
The Panic Before the Plump
My biggest fear? Scar tissue. Not your average “oops I grazed my knee” kind, but deep, anchored collagen nightmares tangled over major nerves — the kind of stuff that makes even the most confident surgeon pause and go, "Hmmm."
Add in old Sculptra injections, some lumpy collagen, and the creative decisions of my past (shoutout to DIY threads again), and I wasn’t just a regular patient — I was a surgical puzzle box. I didn’t need a doctor. I needed a reconstructive sorcerer.
The problem? I didn’t have much fat to give. I’m naturally slim (and while I no longer suffer from bulimia, the fear of gaining weight still haunts me like a bad eyebrow tattoo). So the idea of flying all the way to Turkey, only to be told, “Sorry love, no fat to harvest,” had me spiraling.
So, there I was—standing at the crossroads of cosmetic decision-making like some sort of overanxious beauty philosopher. Do I go with my own precious but limited body fat and hope it sticks around like a loyal friend and risk wasting money ? Or do I trust science, technology, and the wizardry of modern medicine to have a guarantee of fat cells …AKA the big guns: Renuva?
Aylin, bless her endlessly patient soul, assured me:
“The doctor is good. He will find it.”And because I trusted her but also have the anxiety of a caffeinated squirrel, I decided to quit my lifelong calorie-restricted diet and focus on Project: Chunk Up. I gained two kilos, which felt like a Herculean effort. But still—panic.I messaged Aylin constantly. I begged her to order Renuva (a fat grafting matrix that costs more than my rent) because I was convinced I’d show up and they’d be scraping the bottom of the fat barrel. I sent her weekly photo updates of me pinching invisible fat, like:
“Can he use this bit under my arm? What about this sad little love handle? No? What if I lie sideways??”I definitely threw a few tantrums. Possibly a breakdown or two. If you saw our chat history, you’d think I was trying to win an award for “Most Dramatic Pre-Op Patient of the Year.”And yet here I am, writing this review 7 days post-op, sitting in my apartment, looking at my new face in disbelief — although incredibly swollen, im loving my face so far, and just hope it stays this full.
So listen... I meant to go with the smart, high-tech, guaranteed-results option — Renuva. I really did. That was the plan. That was the vibe. That was the "look at me investing in biotech beauty" moment.
But when I showed up, the Renuva Fat Grafting Matrix was... nowhere to be found. Vanished. Ghosted me harder than my last Tinder date. Did the consultant forget? Did Mercury retrograde sabotage my aesthetic destiny? Who’s to say.
Apparently, many surgeons recommend using your own fat first. You know — DIY, organic, farm-to-face, homegrown fat. Probably because Renuva is still the new kid on the surgical block, and surgeons like to play it safe before breaking out the space-age tissue engineering.
So, what did I do? I donated my humble, limited fat reserves to science (a.k.a. my face), crossed my fingers, and prayed it doesn’t pull a Houdini and reabsorb into the void.
Can I say for sure if I’m happy with the results? Not quite yet. It's still early days. Swelling is doing its best impression of a contour filter, and fat graft survival is like a reality show — dramatic, unpredictable, and you’re never quite sure who’s going to make it to the final episode.
Now, onto the GOOD STUFF: the forehead reduction, midface lift, and cat eye? Chef's kiss. Absolute 10/10. Life-changing. Red carpet-ready. If these procedures were on Yelp, I’d give them six stars and a slow clap.
Aylin was an absolute godsend — part tour guide, part travel agent, part emotional support human. Honestly, if I could clone her and take her home in my suitcase, I would have.
From the moment I landed in Istanbul looking like a confused extra from a medical drama, Aylin was on it. She helped me track down a SIM card (because apparently Wi-Fi doesn’t count as a personality trait), rearranged my travel plans like a logistics ninja after my accommodation changed last minute, and — the pièce de résistance — took me grocery shopping.
Yes, reader, this woman held my arm like I was her slightly dazed, confused and very puffy grandmother and guided me through the store while I waddled around swollen and slightly blind, post-surgery, in search of macaroni cheese and other survival snacks
The swelling? Dramatic. The assistance? Legendary. Honestly, Aylin deserves a medal, a raise, and maybe her own Netflix special: "Angels of Aesthetic Tourism: The Istanbul Edition."
10/10 would not have survived without her.
And Dr. Besir Oner? An angel in scrubs. Truly.
One moment I’ll never forget — and didn’t fully appreciate until later — was when he gently held my hand as the surgical team bustled around setting up equipment and anesthesia was getting ready to do its thing. Maybe he noticed my heart rate doing the Macarena on the monitor, or maybe I just looked completely petrified (which, to be fair, I was — full-on deer-in-headlights mode). But that small gesture? Huge. In that moment, he made sure I felt safe, calm, and not like I was about to be abducted by aliens in a very well-lit operating room.
He treated my face like it was a piece of fine art — meticulous, respectful, and precise. He’s soft-spoken and deeply empathetic, with the aesthetic instincts of a Renaissance sculptor and the bedside manner of your favorite therapist. Basically... if Bob Ross did plastic surgery, it would be this guy. Calm voice, happy little midface lifts.
Dr. Besir Oner doesn’t just have skill — he has soul. And that makes all the difference.
In conclusion: Fat fate TBD. Renuva probably should’ve and would have preferred…. But surgical skills and surgeon elite, compassionate, and absolutely top-tier.
Look, when it comes to plastic surgery, I don’t mess around. I do my research—thoroughly. And by “thoroughly,” I mean: I practically earned an honorary PhD in Instagram Forensics and Surgical Stalking. I had nothing better to do with my time (don’t judge me), and let’s be real—if I was going to spend thousands of dollars on a new face, I didn’t want to end up looking like I lost a bet.
I started my search the way any sane person would: obsessively. I dove headfirst into the rabbit hole of “Top 100 Plastic Surgeons in Turkey,” which quickly became “Top 1,000,” and then “Every Surgeon Who’s Ever Held a Scalpel in the Greater Istanbul Area.”
Cue Consultant Aylin.
The poor woman received my very first inquiry back in May—bless her soul—and has been enduring my lengthy, novella-style DMs ever since. I’m not sure if she’s my consultant or my therapist at this point. Honestly, the way I’ve been pestering her with long-winded ramblings, she deserves a raise and a bottle of wine.
Now, plastic surgery is kind of like the lottery. If you want to increase your chances of winning, you don’t just buy one random ticket and pray—you do your research, stalk the odds, and maybe light a candle or two, perform dark magic in a basement.... Except instead of picking numbers, I was picking eye shapes. And jawlines. And surgical approaches.
Turkey, by the way, is like the Disneyland of plastic surgery—except the rides are facelifts and the souvenirs are your old insecurities. The surgeons there are next-level, doing techniques Aussie doctors haven’t even heard of yet. But with every dazzling result came a horror article: “WOMAN FLIES TO TURKEY, NEVER RETURNS.” Cheers, media. That really helped my anxiety spiral.After three solid months of looking at enough airbrushed “after” pics to burn a hole in my retinas, I hit a wall. I mean, some of those noses were so smoothed out, they just… didn’t exist anymore. Like, where did it go? Did it vanish in the name of beauty?So, I switched tactics. I abandoned InstaFake and turned to the holy trinity of real-world feedback: Facebook groups, Reddit threads, and random people on the internet whose opinions I now value more than my own family’s.
Eventually, I narrowed it down to four surgeons. That's when the stalking really began. I combed through plastic surgery convention photos like I was searching for an ex in a group holiday pic—zooming in, squinting, CSI-style enhancing. My logic? If they were at conferences, they cared about staying current. Also, I needed to know who was actually investing in their craft and not just coasting on 2011 techniques and ring lights. But I wasn’t done. Oh no. I wasn’t just checking for Turkish board certification—I wanted European board certification too. And while I was at it, why not look into who studied abroad, speaks five languages, and possibly cured cancer on the side, that would be a bonus
Dr. Besir Oner
The man, the myth, the mystery. He checked all my boxes—except the internet clout one. He wasn’t Insta-famous. He didn’t post every day. He didn’t have 100K followers hanging on every BBL he did. Which immediately made me suspicious. Why isn’t this man obsessed with hashtags like the others? Was he too good for social media, or… was he hiding something? But there was one constant through this whole madness: Aylin.
Every time I started doubting or spiraling (which was, let’s say, often), I’d end up right back in her inbox. She wasn’t just a consultant—she became my sounding board, my hype woman, and occasionally, my unpaid therapist. She had a sense of humor that matched mine (bless her), and somehow talking to her felt more like chatting with a mate over coffee than arranging major surgery. In the end, it wasn’t just credentials, or certifications, or before-and-afters that sold me. It was trust, and connection, and the gut feeling that I’d finally found my people.
So That Was It.
June rolled around, I booked my flight, and started preparing for my first ever adventure to
Turkey—Operation: Fix My Mug. She was destroyed. We’re talking post-apocalyptic face vibes. When the many consultants asked what kind of medical condition I had after seeing my photos, the only honest answer I could give was:
“Stupidity.”
Not some rare skin disease or genetic disorder—just pure, unfiltered bad decision-making.It all started with those blessed hyaluronic acid pen injectors—you know, the ones they sell online and market like you can give yourself a lip flip on your lunch break. Add in some DIY threads and hylauronic acid injections from korea (because obviously, I’m not a doctor but I play one in my bathroom mirror), years of bulimia in my youth, and a collection of dental infections that decided to eat away my jawbone like termites on Red Bull…Yeah. There were reasons I looked the way I did.Some of it wasn’t even my fault—like my weirdly shaped forehead (thanks, genetics), but the rest? That was me, armed with too much free time, not enough impulse control, and a Wi-Fi connection.In short: I didn’t just want plastic surgery—I needed a facial redemption arc.
The Panic Before the Plump
My biggest fear? Scar tissue. Not your average “oops I grazed my knee” kind, but deep, anchored collagen nightmares tangled over major nerves — the kind of stuff that makes even the most confident surgeon pause and go, "Hmmm."
Add in old Sculptra injections, some lumpy collagen, and the creative decisions of my past (shoutout to DIY threads again), and I wasn’t just a regular patient — I was a surgical puzzle box. I didn’t need a doctor. I needed a reconstructive sorcerer.
The problem? I didn’t have much fat to give. I’m naturally slim (and while I no longer suffer from bulimia, the fear of gaining weight still haunts me like a bad eyebrow tattoo). So the idea of flying all the way to Turkey, only to be told, “Sorry love, no fat to harvest,” had me spiraling.
So, there I was—standing at the crossroads of cosmetic decision-making like some sort of overanxious beauty philosopher. Do I go with my own precious but limited body fat and hope it sticks around like a loyal friend and risk wasting money ? Or do I trust science, technology, and the wizardry of modern medicine to have a guarantee of fat cells …AKA the big guns: Renuva?
Aylin, bless her endlessly patient soul, assured me:
“The doctor is good. He will find it.”And because I trusted her but also have the anxiety of a caffeinated squirrel, I decided to quit my lifelong calorie-restricted diet and focus on Project: Chunk Up. I gained two kilos, which felt like a Herculean effort. But still—panic.I messaged Aylin constantly. I begged her to order Renuva (a fat grafting matrix that costs more than my rent) because I was convinced I’d show up and they’d be scraping the bottom of the fat barrel. I sent her weekly photo updates of me pinching invisible fat, like:
“Can he use this bit under my arm? What about this sad little love handle? No? What if I lie sideways??”I definitely threw a few tantrums. Possibly a breakdown or two. If you saw our chat history, you’d think I was trying to win an award for “Most Dramatic Pre-Op Patient of the Year.”And yet here I am, writing this review 7 days post-op, sitting in my apartment, looking at my new face in disbelief — although incredibly swollen, im loving my face so far, and just hope it stays this full.
So listen... I meant to go with the smart, high-tech, guaranteed-results option — Renuva. I really did. That was the plan. That was the vibe. That was the "look at me investing in biotech beauty" moment.
But when I showed up, the Renuva Fat Grafting Matrix was... nowhere to be found. Vanished. Ghosted me harder than my last Tinder date. Did the consultant forget? Did Mercury retrograde sabotage my aesthetic destiny? Who’s to say.
Apparently, many surgeons recommend using your own fat first. You know — DIY, organic, farm-to-face, homegrown fat. Probably because Renuva is still the new kid on the surgical block, and surgeons like to play it safe before breaking out the space-age tissue engineering.
So, what did I do? I donated my humble, limited fat reserves to science (a.k.a. my face), crossed my fingers, and prayed it doesn’t pull a Houdini and reabsorb into the void.
Can I say for sure if I’m happy with the results? Not quite yet. It's still early days. Swelling is doing its best impression of a contour filter, and fat graft survival is like a reality show — dramatic, unpredictable, and you’re never quite sure who’s going to make it to the final episode.
Now, onto the GOOD STUFF: the forehead reduction, midface lift, and cat eye? Chef's kiss. Absolute 10/10. Life-changing. Red carpet-ready. If these procedures were on Yelp, I’d give them six stars and a slow clap.
Aylin was an absolute godsend — part tour guide, part travel agent, part emotional support human. Honestly, if I could clone her and take her home in my suitcase, I would have.
From the moment I landed in Istanbul looking like a confused extra from a medical drama, Aylin was on it. She helped me track down a SIM card (because apparently Wi-Fi doesn’t count as a personality trait), rearranged my travel plans like a logistics ninja after my accommodation changed last minute, and — the pièce de résistance — took me grocery shopping.
Yes, reader, this woman held my arm like I was her slightly dazed, confused and very puffy grandmother and guided me through the store while I waddled around swollen and slightly blind, post-surgery, in search of macaroni cheese and other survival snacks
The swelling? Dramatic. The assistance? Legendary. Honestly, Aylin deserves a medal, a raise, and maybe her own Netflix special: "Angels of Aesthetic Tourism: The Istanbul Edition."
10/10 would not have survived without her.
And Dr. Besir Oner? An angel in scrubs. Truly.
One moment I’ll never forget — and didn’t fully appreciate until later — was when he gently held my hand as the surgical team bustled around setting up equipment and anesthesia was getting ready to do its thing. Maybe he noticed my heart rate doing the Macarena on the monitor, or maybe I just looked completely petrified (which, to be fair, I was — full-on deer-in-headlights mode). But that small gesture? Huge. In that moment, he made sure I felt safe, calm, and not like I was about to be abducted by aliens in a very well-lit operating room.
He treated my face like it was a piece of fine art — meticulous, respectful, and precise. He’s soft-spoken and deeply empathetic, with the aesthetic instincts of a Renaissance sculptor and the bedside manner of your favorite therapist. Basically... if Bob Ross did plastic surgery, it would be this guy. Calm voice, happy little midface lifts.
Dr. Besir Oner doesn’t just have skill — he has soul. And that makes all the difference.
In conclusion: Fat fate TBD. Renuva probably should’ve and would have preferred…. But surgical skills and surgeon elite, compassionate, and absolutely top-tier.
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