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My butt is, I have to say, overall a pretty good butt: I proudly have ample junk in the trunk, and my cheeks are round with delightful symmetry, which should satisfy my vanity. But the top of my crack, well, it swerves like it’s a freehand drawing done after a third martini. I wasn’t born like this; I had an operation in my 20s to remove a harmful cyst. The procedure was, medically speaking, a success, but cosmetically, I was left with an imperfect peach. Ever since, there’s been a 2-inch region of skin that appears as though it’s just dying to move from left cheek to right, pushing the boundary of the crack along with it. When I crane my neck toward the full-length mirror to get a view of my naked behind, I wonder what friends and lovers have thought of my deviated dumpster.
It’s the least visible part of my body, yet I’ve had good reason lately to obsess about my gluteus maximus, my derrière, my whole imperfect situation back there. It’s the year of the butt crack, haven’t you heard? Seemingly every red carpet, really the entire fashion industry in 2026, has put cheeks back on the paparazzi menu. So far this awards season, Kendall Jenner, Hailey Bieber, Teyana Taylor, and Zoë Kravitz have all donned very public looks showcasing the top of their once private behinds. We have bejeweled butt veils, plunging backlines, and mesh dresses to thank for the views. And while I don’t know if there’s a world in which I’d wear that stuff, I would like to feel confident about my bum.
My cheeks are crooked because I had something called a pilonidal cyst in my early 20s. It’s a cyst at the base of the tailbone or top of the butt crease. My doctor said it may have been caused by an ingrown hair that became inflamed after collecting debris. My removal was done without complication by a general surgeon, but back then plastic surgeons didn’t routinely enter the operating room like they do today to implement finishing touches such as the Cleft-Lift (Bascom) procedure. My postsurgical wound was a gaping hole at the top of my butt crack, left to close on its own. For months, I stuffed saline-soaked gauze in it twice daily until it dried, then ripped it out so my flesh would regenerate. It was excruciating. The fatty tissue never became reinfected, thank goodness, though it also didn’t heal back into a straight line.
There are a number of other reasons someone might look askew from the back view. Simple things like the way your body disperses fat, aging, or skin laxity can create asymmetry. If your pelvis sits at an angle—maybe because your legs are different lengths, maybe because you have scoliosis—the midline of the buttocks can tilt, and, boom, a crooked crack. Sometimes, a swerving behind can be a fortuitous red flag, signaling hidden spinal defects before expensive MRIs are required. Or, a trauma to the area—like my cyst removal or other injuries—could make your crack crooked.
Can we take action against our crooked butts? I called a few plastic surgeons to find out, and learned that, at least when it comes to cosmetic irregularities like mine, the answer is yes. (I would expect nothing less—these days, every insecurity comes with a solution.) Nonsurgical options like dermal fillers or fat grafting can suffuse depressions to create a more centered appearance. Fat grafting might sound intense, but it’s a kind of natural filler. “With fat grafting, we take fatty tissue from common donor sites like the lower back or inner thigh, then carefully inject along your midline to even out any divots or angular discrepancies,” said James Chao, a board-certified plastic surgeon practicing in San Diego. He explains that recovery is quite quick and stitches are not required. He has performed this exact procedure on dozens of patients, notably those whose symmetry goals have become an obvious fixation. Getting that “last 5 percent” to aesthetic perfection in this case would cost around $7,000 all in.
Surgery is also an option, Jeffrey Lee, a double board-certified plastic surgeon in Boston, tells me. The medical term for my ailment is an asymmetrical gluteal cleft, though requests to fix it are far less common than those to eliminate cellulite, flatten the tummy, or augment the breasts. He also reminds me that any surgery comes with scarring, meaning that I could fix one butt-related issue only to end up with another. If anything, Lee gently steered me away from this path: “Like most cosmetic issues, it really starts with one question: How much does this actually bother you?”
“Do it for yourself, never for a trend,” Sheina Bawa, a general and cosmetic surgeon, advised. In her Miami-based practice, she is seeing a rise in Brazilian butt lift (aka BBL) reversals as the “Kim Kardashian aesthetic” is losing appeal. She also stressed, “Surgery is a long-term commitment, but trends are temporary. I always tell my patients: Only do this for yourself, never because of a trend or societal pressure.”
Yet, we so often do cave to pressure. I recently tried the “inverted filter” trend on TikTok that has been around for years and periodically resurfaces to highlight our inherent insecurities with how the world sees us. Its premise is all about alignment: Post your face with and without the filter in quick succession—you “pass the test” on social media if your face looks the same both ways. Women routinely turn to fillers and surgery to force a level of symmetry and balance we aren’t naturally meant to have as a result of this absurd kind of standard. We may all recoil in horror at “Mar-a-Lago face”—and you might be rolling your eyes at my foray into the world of butt-crack straightening. But consider that more subtle “facial balancing,” in which injectables are used to even out one’s appearance, is becoming widespread. Who among us is getting Botox in secret after age 40? Certainly not me—I’ll happily share that my smooth face is thanks to needles.
Still, I’ve decided to simply embrace my butt, even with its quirky swerve. A few weekends ago at brunch, my friend leaned in and whispered about a guy she’d been dating: “The only weird thing about him is the top of his butt crack is super crooked!” My eyes widened and I gasped, “Mine too!” We found ourselves giggling at the random chance that he and I shared this postsurgical nuance, and how funny it was to find commonality in something that, when I really thought about it, was quite trivial. Over deviled eggs and hash I finally felt comfortable in my own seat. I realized: My butt might be a little odd. But it tells a beguiling story.
