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It looks at you coyly but blankly, as if its owner has taken half a Klonopin and is considering asking you for a private-jet ride to Coachella. It has catlike eyes and long, cartoonish lashes it has a small, neat nose and full, lush lips.

It’s a young face, of course, with poreless skin and plump, high cheekbones. This past summer, I booked a plane ticket to Los Angeles with the hope of investigating what seems likely to be one of the oddest legacies of our rapidly expiring decade: the gradual emergence, among professionally beautiful women, of a single, cyborgian face.