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I first decided to get Botox about eight years ago, at a medical spa on a noisy, unglamorous stretch of Highway 49 in Placer County, California. On the way there, I noticed a simple but chilling church sign warning of the risks of not believing in Jesus, and a bumper sticker that read, “Guns Don’t Kill People, Abortion Clinics Do.” I didn’t know of any Botox clinics in Nevada County, where arthouse movies were usually shown with land titles printed out before them and bumper stickers featuring quotes from Mary Oliver or Osho. Placer County, where Blue Lives Matter meets balayage, seemed like a good place to artificially restore my face to its youthful glamour, at least in my early forties.
Now that I’m in my 50s, the agonizing I went through over whether to get that first Botox treatment seems almost charming. Several women I knew had visited the same clinic, and I studied their faces to make sure their changes were subtle yet significant. I quizzed the clinic’s receptionist about my provider’s qualifications. I made an appointment three weeks in advance, unsure if I’d end up showing up. But I did.
The office felt like Airbnb through a “women like this” AI filter—pale floors, cream chairs, and textured neutral curtains. With a cup of Fireside Vanilla Spice and an Elin Hilderbrand novel, I could have snuggled up in the waiting room for hours. I filled out a questionnaire that had a prompt asking me to talk about other parts of my face and body that I didn’t like. I crossed it out and wrote, “Please don’t ask me about other parts of my face or body because I’ll start crying, just do something about these lines, please.”
The practitioner was a nurse who reminded me of a Botox model from Central Casting: blonde hair, a slender frame, C-cup breasts as firm as mixing bowls, and enormous platinum wedding and engagement rings. The work she’d done to her face made her age hard to tell. Yes, she’d had Botox, but she’d probably also had fillers and this fat-busting procedure to take away her double chin. We had different aesthetic preferences, and probably very different views on the media, friendship, and men. If she had an anti-aging motto, it was, “Use every technology available.” If I had one, it was, “By all means, do something, but make sure it’s subtle, because maybe the worst thing you can do to look older is trying desperately to look younger.” I thought she’d have a problem not telling me that smoothing my forehead was a joke, given that my entire face was rapidly retreating from its glorious past. I’d have a problem if she said something like that — though she’d certainly say it more politely — without yelling back something like, “Thanks, but I don’t take beauty advice from people with barrel curls.” But what united us was more important than what divided us. We’d both been young once, and we were both out there in modern America, trying to gain a little respect/acceptance in our chosen communities.
To her credit, she was restrained in her recommendations. She asked if I knew I had hyperpigmentation. I laughed and told her about an incident one night when my boyfriend’s father interrupted our quiet meal with a sharp comment: “You have a really dark spot near your eye, did you know that?” I replied, “Yes, you know about hormones?” Then we continued eating.
The joke didn’t get a reaction. Botox nurses want you to add on more expensive treatments, not share funny true stories with them. So I knew about this hyperpigmentation, she said. Did I want to do anything about it? Of course I did. I wanted to get rid of the hyperpigmentation on my face, my body, and the planet. I also wanted each of my breasts to weigh a pound less and be an inch and a half taller. I wanted my hair to look like it came from Jimmy’s Sable Coat Emporium instead of Bob’s Discount Carpets. I dreamed of going to see Nosferatu in eight years and, when the title character holds out his withered hand, whispering to my friend, “Fun fact, I was the hand double in that movie,” and she would say, “Whoa, girl, you’re gorgeous,” instead of laughing out loud. The nurse gave me an injection and I paid.
Within seven days the wrinkles on my forehead actually disappeared and I looked forty-one or forty-two instead of forty-six or forty-seven, because that's what you're supposed to be
Sourse: newyorker.com
