Q Despite eating well and exercising frequently, my face betrays every one of my 47 years. Should I consider “aesthetic intervention”? Matt, Manchester
[Article sourced here]
There is a cosmetic-surgery gag in an
early episode of The Simpsons that still makes me hoot. When rumours of the
sale of the Springfield nuclear plant begin circulating, rising stocks give
employees an overnight windfall. Overexcited, most use theirs to buy sports
cars; Homer, of course, spends his on beer. Meanwhile, Lenny decides to fork
out on a dazzling facelift. Spirits are dampened, however, when it’s revealed
that Mr Burns has offloaded his factory to hapless German investors. “Look at
all those worried faces,” Marge says. “Except for Lenny. He looks great!” Cue
Lenny, rictus grin intact. “This is the worst day of my life,” he says.
Cosmetic procedures have come a long way
since the 1990s. Back then we associated them with meretricious freakery: all
wild eyes, bodged noses and pneumatic breasts. In the public eye, there were as
many celebrity disaster stories as there were plastic fantasies. What united
these extreme makeovers was an espousal of artificiality, as though going under
the knife wasn’t a means to an end so much as a look in its own right. As ever,
money and insecurity make for a toxic marriage.
Nowadays, not only has the approach
changed (surgery is on the wane, while non-invasive procedures predominate),
but so too has the clientele. In fact, Lenny might be seen as a trailblazer
here, because working men now account for as many as 30% of patients at some
clinics. Walk-in procedures range from Botox and dermal fillers, for erasing
signs of age, to cryolipolysis, or fat freezing, for the removal of
subcutaneous tissue — love handles to you and me. Apparently there’s also
something called “scrotox”, though a nervous disposition prohibits me from
researching this further.
Needless to say, the youthful airiness
of my own complexion means I have never had cause to employ such services. But
just for you, Matt, I decided to book a consultation with Dr Anne Mendelovici
at the renowned Sebagh clinic in Wimpole Street, central London.
French, elegant and both proud
practitioner and recipient of Botox, she tells me what constitutes a good
treatment. “I’m interested in making people look fresher, not dumber,” she
says, mimicking an Instagram trout pout. “It’s about age maintenance. People
want to look better for longer. I see senior managers who want to keep ahead of
the game. They want to show young executives who’s boss. But less is always more.
Botox is conservation, just like any other form of grooming.” And with that, I
find myself having the crow’s feet and brow furrows I never knew existed marked
up for a hit of botulinum toxin type A.
The first thing to be said is that it
hurts. I’ve heard the sensation likened to a bug bite — maybe so, but there are
midges and then there are bullet ants. When you’re on the receiving end of 16
injections, that’s a lot of bullet ants chomping on your kisser. Nevertheless,
it’s over within minutes and I leave the surgery blemish-free. The second, more
pertinent thing to be said is that it works. Over the course of the following
week, I gradually watch my eyes widen and my face become less ravaged.
Crucially, nobody notices. Still, when I arrive at work on less than four
hours’ sleep and am told I look refreshed, I take this as an endorsement.
Should you, Matt? Well, far be it from
me to advise any man to have his forehead punctured repeatedly in the name of
vanity. What I will say, however, is that my experience was surprisingly
gainful. Surprising because my usual approach to self-preservation involves
punishing myself with exercise before compensating with good food and drink.
(My body is like a temple with a nice bar attached.) Botox didn’t feel like the
grotesque show I feared it might. Instead, it proved to be a welcome shot in
the, um, face. I’m glad it happened. I’d consider it again. And that’s about as
close as I’m going to get to saying yes.
