Love it - 'We hate our flat chests'

Sliding another coin into the fruit machine, I watched in anticipation as the colourful symbols flickered to a stop. ‘Yes!’ I cheered, as a flurry of cash jangled out.

I was on holiday in Las Vegas with my daughter, Kirsty, and we were enjoying a flutter in a casino. ‘There’s enough here for a posh meal,’ Kirsty, 22, beamed, as we counted our winnings. Scooping the money into our handbags, we made our way to a plush restaurant. As we looked at the menu, a waitress arrived to take our order. ‘Two glasses of champagne,’ I said, glancing up.

Suddenly all thoughts of tasty lobster and juicy steaks disappeared from my mind.

Our waitress was breathtakingly beautiful. Her platinum blonde hair was tousled and tumbling, her make-up was immaculate and her waist was trim and tiny.

But what was really making me gawp was her bust. Her voluptuous breasts were in perfect proportion, and her top skimmed her curves perfectly.

Looking down at my own chest, I sighed. My boobs barely filled a 26A bra, and I looked deflated in my vest top. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I told myself, shaking my head. ‘Breasts aren’t everything.’ I’d been telling myself that for years.

As a teenager, I’d waited for my boobs to sprout, but they never did. And although I could stuff my bra, I knew when I took it off, there’d be nothing underneath. While other girls paraded their cleavages in skin-tight tops, I’d slouch around in baggy t-shirts to detract attention from my bust.

The idea of a boob job had often crossed my mind. But after having my girls, Stacey, now 25 and Kirsty, and separating from their dad, a boob job was way down my list of priorities. Both my daughters had inherited my boyish frame.

Now, as Kirsty fumbled with the buttons on her satin blouse while giving the waitress her order, I could tell she was feeling inadequate, too. She’d never moaned about her lack of curves, but I recognised the self-consciousness I’d felt my whole life. During the rest of our holiday, everywhere I looked, there were women with perfect, pert peaks.

Soon, I was feeling more self-conscious than ever. My girls were in their twenties now – maybe it was time to do something for myself. Getting ready for our last night out in Las Vegas, we both wanted to make a real effort.

Looking at my reflection in the mirror I saw Kirsty inserting gel pads into her bra. Trying her hardest to boost her chest, she gave up, resigned to having no cleavage. It broke my heart. Kirsty’s boyfriend of two years, Richard Tomblin, 21, loved her the way she was. But I could tell she was fed-up with her lack of curves.

The next day, as we dragged our suitcases out of the hotel to fly home, I told Kirsty about my decision. ‘I’m having a boob job,’ I said, as we waited for a taxi to take us to the airport. Kirsty blinked In the sunshine, then a grin spread over her face. ‘Me too!’ she shrieked. As I looked at Kirsty, so young and pretty, I felt a twinge. Should my baby really be going under the knife? ‘if that’s what you want,’ I smiled, pulling her into a hug.

Surgery was going to help make us the women we were meant to be. But as the plan landed back in the UK, worries niggled. Was a boob job right for a 48-year-old mum of two? I could barely watch hospital dramas without hiding my eyes during the gory bits. How was I going to put myself under the knife?

Kirsty didn’t share my worries. A few days after getting home, she unfurled a glossy brochure. ‘I’ve got information about the surgery,’ she smiled. ‘We can have a consultation in a couple of weeks.’ ‘It will cost £4250 each,’ she said. Kirsty was going to borrow £500 from me and fund the rest through the clinic’s payment plan. I would delve into my savings to cover the cost of my surgery.

Flicking through the pages, I read what the surgeon would do. Nerves swirled in my stomach. But as I glanced down at my grey t-shirt skimming my flat chest, I knew I had to be brave. Kirsty sensed my anxiety. We could have the operation together, she suggested. It was a great idea. We could support each other through it all. So we made an appointment.

Two weeks later, we held each other’s hands as we sat in the surgeon’s waiting room. My tummy trembled with fear, but Kirsty beamed with excitement. Could I really go through with this? I’d made it this far, but was I brave enough to have an operation I’d been dreaming about for 20 years?

Sitting opposite the smartly dressed surgeon, I gulped down a knot of anxiety. ‘You’re both perfect candidates for breast augmentation,’ he smiled. Next, he explained to us how he’d make an incision under each breast, before inserting the saline implants behind the muscle.

For as long as I could remember, I’d dreamed of boosting my tiny 36A boobs to a voluptuous 36D. But after becoming a mum to my two girls, Stacey and Kirsty, I’d pushed surgery out of my mind. Now, with Kirsty preparing for her own boob job, I was ready to do something for myself.

‘We want to have our operations together,’ Kirsty said, as we chose our implants.

The surgeon nodded. ‘That won’t be a problem,’ he smiled. Suddenly, excitement replaced my nerves. With Kirsty by my side I knew I could do this. Deciding on perfect 36D implants, I was ready for my transformation. Kirsty plumped to boost her chest to a shapely 34C. ‘I’ve put up with my tiny boobs for long enough,’ I said, as Kirsty and I signed on the dotted line.

A month later, we were ready to become the curvy women we’d always wanted to be.

When we told Stacey, she was pleased. ‘I’m really happy for you both,’ she said.

On the morning of the operation, we drove to The Harley Medical Group clinic in North London, three hours from our home in Mansfield, Nottinghamshire.

Our operations were taking place that afternoon, and we’d been given adjoining rooms. The nurses had even moved our beds so we could talk to each other through the door. Looking at my flat chest, I knew it would be the last time my breasts would struggle to fit my nightie. ‘Not long until we have boobs like those gorgeous girls we saw in Las Vegas,’ Kirsty giggled.

It was my turn to go under the surgeon’s knife first. As I was wheeled out of my room I caught sight of Kirsty’s nervous face. ‘I’ll see you in a little while,’ I reassured her, Kirsty nodded. On the operating table, the anaesthetic flooded through me as I dreamed of waking up with perfect boobs. Ninety minutes later, I came round just in time to see Kirsty being wheeled off to surgery.

‘Everything will be OK,’ I promised her as she disappeared out of the door. Glancing down at my chest, I gasped. Although my boobs were covered in bandages, I could already tell they were much bigger.

A dull pain ached through me, but I barely noticed it. All I felt was giddy with pleasure. An hour and a half later, Kirsty was wheeled back to her room. ‘Hello, love,’ I smiled. She grinned back weakly. ‘I can’t wait to see my new boobs,’ she said. The next morning, we went home.

Kirsty’s boyfriend, Richard, treated her like a princess, while I rested on the sofa. Every time I caught a glimpse of my silhouette, happiness surged through me. I couldn’t wait to see what was under the bandages, to wear strappy tops and pretty bras I’d always fantasised about.

I could tell Kirsty was just as happy and excited. ‘We’ve got boobs,’ I grinned, hugging her gently. Two weeks after our operations, Kirsty and I made our way to an outpatients’ clinic in Nottingham to have our bandages removed. ‘Ready?’ I asked Kirsty, as the nurse snipped the white fabric away from my chest. ‘Wow,’ I breathed, shedding tears of happiness.

Instead of a flat chest, I had a pair of perfect 36D boobs. Then Kirsty had her dressings removed. My daughter’s gorgeous new figure made her look more stunning than ever. ‘We look amazing,’ she breathed. ‘Let’s hit the shops,’ I grinned.

In the lingerie store, we were transfixed by the delicate bras and camisoles we’d never filled before. Picking up a beautiful black lace and silk bra, I glanced at the size – a D cup. Just right for my new boobs. I watched Kirsty twirling in front of the mirror. The smile on her face was wider than I’d ever seen.

And when Richard caught sight of her coming through the door, he said: ‘I loved you how you were before, but you look amazing.’ Ten months on, we feel as if this is how we’ve always looked. We’re really proud of our new curves. And I’m so glad we kept it in the family.

Roberta Guy, 48.

Mansfield, Nottinghamshire.