It's hard to believe you did it: You went and had your breast implants removed. The legions of Pamela watchers are agog, Leno is cracking wise about it, and Ripley's wants to put your implants on display in its Hollywood museum. Mostly, though, everyone is just wondering why?

The official reason you gave is "I just wanted my body to return to its original state." When a friend of mine heard this, he said, "That's like Samson going out and getting a buzz-cut." People are assuming you had the surgery because the implants caused you problems (though you claim they have not), and they can't imagine why someone who rode to fame and fortune on the cleavage ticket would extrude her most marketable asset. But you know what, Pamela? I think I get it.

Breast implants have always been a controversial surgical enhancement. We sneer at the implanted woman, because by paying thousands of dollars and exposing herself to the risks of surgery to have her breasts enlarged, she's going to lengths to advertise her sensuality. She's pursuing an old-fashioned notion of femininity by putting her breasts front and center. Big breasts -- especially fake ones -- are vulgar, down-market and attract the gaze of the common male. So maybe you're sick of catching the heat, Pamela. You've spent years suffering slings and arrows regarding your man-made endowments.

You've had a good run of it -- you've been in Playboy eight times (nine if you count the pre-boob job layout), and have enjoyed great success as a pin-up and TV cutie pie. But "cute" can't go on forever, and maybe you've realized that. You'll be 32 this year, and perhaps now is the time to attempt a segue into something more mature. You're showing the signs of adulthood -- first by dumping your abusive rocker husband, Tommy Lee, last year, and now taking out your implants. You are growing up.

But that's just my first and best guess. What's the real reason? Is it because you knew that no matter how much the implants turned people on, in the end the implants would only turn on you? Statistics suggest that virtually all silicone implants will leak after eight to 10 years, and even if that doesn't happen, there's still a host of things that can go wrong: rupture, infection, calcium deposits. And saline implants -- though considered safer because their silicone shell is a lot thicker and saline can be harmlessly absorbed into the body should the implants leak -- aren't foolproof. The saline can slosh around palpably inside the implant, and as for their failure, doctors often say, "It's not a matter of if, but when."

Is it because you are tired of being the nation's porno sweetheart? My gosh, it was just last week you made the front page of the Wall Street Journal as the hit queen of the Internet. Maybe it's no compliment considering most of the hits you inspire are people snooping for that sex tape you and Tommy Lee made. That's going to be a tough blemish to erase from your record, implants or no implants. At least you will no longer be described in the media as "pneumatic."

Or is it because you see implants as "over"? If so, you are bucking the trend. Between 1992 and 1997, the number of breast augmentation surgeries tripled. And since 1992 -- the height of the silicone scare -- the removal of breast implants has plummeted 84 percent.

Pamela, you are ahead of your time.

I know all about the implant removal surgery. They find a (hopefully inconspicuous) spot on the breast in which they make an incision (unfortunately, it needs to be considerably longer than the one originally made to insert the implants) and cut out the implant. They probably did a capsulectomy on you, too, which involves surgically removing the hard, encapsulating scar tissue that frequently forms around the implants. And since your breasts would no doubt be droopy sans implants, maybe they set you up with a mastopexy, too -- a boob lift. This involves partially or totally removing the areola, trimming off the excess breast flesh around the areola region and the bottom of the breast, gathering the edges of the breast tissue together so as to make the breast higher and firmer, then reattaching the areola and stitching it all closed. The procedure leaves an anchor-shaped scar that runs around the nipple, down the center of the lower breast and along the underside, but it sure beats looking deflated. (Sometimes they pop in a smaller set of implants to help fill you out, but I won't pry as to whether you did that or not.) Then you spend a few days in a surgical bra, and three or four weeks wearing a soft support bra over gauze bandages, 24-7.

I'm sure you'll look terrific with your downsized poitrine, but I must say that despite the many icky aspects of implants, when you had them, you used them well. You showed up in so many great outfits that would flatten, humiliate or simply roll down to the waist of us natural folk. Oh, the latex dresses, the silver strapless Dolce & Gabbana sheath and the notorious Barb Wire leather corset. In all of these ensembles, you stood firm and proud -- entirely without the aid of underwiring. Not to mention your bounding down the beach in that "Baywatch" maillot. No woman has rocked a red one-piece that way since Farrah Fawcett.

There have since been other techno-blonds surfing in your wake on the "Baywatch" set. But forget Gena Lee Nolin, forget Donna D'Errico. You are the original, Pam. So flossy and so nasty. You join Marilyn, Farrah and Bo in the pantheon of Hefner-anointed blond pop goddesses. You will persevere because you are a good sport -- seemingly always able to roll with the punches and laugh at yourself. Not like that annoying ice princess Sharon Stone, who is constantly mentioning how smart she is ("My IQ is 156! My IQ is 156!") and imperiously flaring her nostrils. You are different. You are a populist hottie and all-American good time girl.

I'm dying to find out -- did you know you were going to do this six months back when you were the cover girl for Esquire's cleavage culture story? And will we see your new body in Playboy?

Taking out your implants might boost your intellectual credibility -- such as it is -- but I don't want you to go overboard and start petitioning for suede-patch approval. It's like Hillary Clinton baking chocolate chip cookies way back when -- a dicey political gambit that, frankly, plays to the wrong crowd and might well backfire.

Aw shoot, Pamela, I can't tell you what to do based on what I want. That'd be like all those people who were pissed when Courtney Love cleaned up and went Hollywood -- they wanted her to stay strung out and painted up like a trashy little clown because she embodied their nefarious bohemian fantasies. That ain't right. You are your own woman, do what you must. If you really want to shoot for that "serious" thing, however, you have my permission to use my idea of posing in a wet Harper's T-shirt. God knows I'll probably never get around to it.

I'm not sure what the future holds for you now, Pammy, but know that you will always have a place in my heart, and your post-operative poster will always have a place on my wall.

Love, Lily
salon.com | April 27, 1999