Today’s prosthetics strive to surpᴀss human capabilities, the earliest known prosthesis, dating back to 950 B.C., was discovered in Cairo on the mummified body of an ancient Egyptian woman. This prosthesis is mainly made of wood, modeled and stained, with components bound together by leather threads. As a prosthesis goes, it is quite tiny.

The prosthetic digit—the oldest little peg in the world—is extraordinarily lifelike, its curved nail sunken into a similar curve carved bed. Which is, in its way, remarkable. A toe! One that is several thousand years old! And it’s not just a toe-sized peg—a little device that would have made mobility more manageable for someone who was, by reasons of birth or amputation, missing her big toe. The prosthesis is, as prostheses go, tiny.

The prosthetic digit stands revealed to the world as a feat of cosmetic and cosmetic art on the ancient mummy, a figure whose biological age far exceeds the prosthesis itself. It is carefully designed, intricately carved, and matches the appearance of the human foot. The “Cairo Toe,” as it’s been dubbed, is prosthetic and cosmetic art on par with the most recent developments in cosmetic surgery.

The earliest prostheses treated the body as a pneumatic model, striving to replicate its function. These devices, and especially the one that imitated the big toe, were intended to restore balance and mobility. It wasn’t until much later—much, much later—that we began to think beyond the lifelike.

The Cairo Toe, 700-950

While today’s prosthetics strive to surpᴀss human capabilities, the earliest versions sought to replicate them.

The earliest known prosthesis, dating possibly as far back as 950 B.C., was discovered in Cairo on the mummified body of an ancient Egyptian woman. The prosthesis is made largely of wood, modeled and stained, with components bound together with leather threads. It is, as prostheses go, tiny.

The prosthetic digit—the oldest little piggy in the world—is extraordinarily lifelike, its curvature near seamless and its surface textured, blending together with nearby fingers through the use of delicate threads of leather. It is, as prostheses go, tiny. A toe! One that is several thousand years old! And it’s not just a toe-sized peg—a little device that would have made mobility more manageable for someone who was, by reasons of birth or amputation, missing her big toe. The prosthesis is, as much as it possibly could be, humanoid: maximally lifelike and maximally toe-like. The “Cairo Toe,” as it’s been dubbed, is prosthetic and cosmetic at once—evidence not just of ancient manufacturing stepping in where biology was limited, but of manufacturing engaging in an ancient form of biomimicry.

The earliest prostheses treated the body as a palette upon which the colors of appearance could be applied. But it’s also worth noting that their impulses—the body, made more functionally whole by technological augmentation—have been distinctly un-prosthetic. They suggest a future in which the borders between man and machine were meant not to be blurred but to be erased. After all, they’re about replacement, and more than that: about improvement.

Come the Cairo Toe to today’s prostheses, many of which—especially those that dominate the public imagination—seem to be inspired by “man,” and more often than not intended to be inspired by the Bionic Man. The bodies. The hooks. The escalations. This week alone has brought news of a roboticized