What Are You Doing to Your Face? What Am I Doing to Mine?
Ah it’s a thorny issue this Sunday, but one that has given me plenty to get my Invisalign-enhanced teeth into. To age naturally, or not to age naturally, that—it seems—is the only question. Wherever I go, whatever I do, apparently all anyone wants to talk about is getting work done—but for once, the conversation is nothing to do with productivity. In this context, we are talking about cosmetic work and more specifically, who has had bad work, who must have had work and who (‘good for them’) is having no work whatsoever. For women thirty-five and above, up and down the country, the tipping point has been reached where so many people have now had the work, that to not have the work goes against the grain.
Before I get into any of the gritty nitty, I’m sure you’re right, it is probably more demonstrably a London thing. But also…it’s not just a London thing. It’s not just a fashion thing. It’s not just a white, middle age, middle class thing (though cosmetic industry marketing continues to be targeted heavily to that demographic). It is everywhere and it has touched everything. Just look at the comments below the Remembrance Day pictures posted of Kate Middleton to British Vogue’s Instagram this week and you will see how firmly perceptions of what a face post forty should look like has shifted. It’s inescapable.
In this arena, I profess in no way to be on any kind of high horse. I’ve been dabbling for a couple of years with a little bit of this, a baby bit of that. If I had more disposable income, it’s possible that I would be unrecognisable by now. I always think it’s all very well to talk about conservative aesthetics when you have a conservative budget with which to purchase said aesthetics. I would like to think no matter what my bank balance, I’d keep my feet on the ground. But I am in no position to judge. I also wear make-up, spend money on the gym and put down my cash on expensive clothes. On so many counts I’m a living, breathing stereotype of superficial womanhood. And yet. I am so bloody conflicted along every mm of my pin-cushioned skin.
I’m sure you’ve all read eminent writers and commentators arguing down every side of this polarising cultural fissure. It goes something like this: any kind of pain in pursuit of beauty is anti-feminist; spending time, money and focus on your looks when you could be using the energy elsewhere holds womanhood back across the board; any kind of anti-aging treatment only contributes to the pressure on all women to conform to truly unrealistic standards. And the zinger: not everyone can afford to do any kind of aesthetic procedure, so if those who can afford to do so do it, we create a new layer of systemic disadvantage in an ageist culture. In this brave new world of faces, all the alphas and betas getting their cheeks filled and jawlines snatched are only serving to cast the naturally maturing Lindas as an aberration. When you can’t afford to conform to this new norm, a two-tier beauty world is created for those who mature by those who suspend animation.
We have obviously been here before with the beauty industry notably with body hair, where what is natural has been twisted and warped to come to be perceived as perverse. To play any kind of part in this narrative can only spell complicity. Right?
On the other, more individualist side, it is plausible to argue that as we have no choice but to live in a world which has been obsessed with youth since the dawn of time, we are caught in a bind beyond our control. Put simply, what you gonna do? When bisected with patriarchy, a nubile appearance is in itself a kind of feminine power and thus it’s arguable that it’s a feminist choice whether or not to engage pragmatically with the terms of the game. We have all been raised within a resilient aesthetic culture which praises radiance, suppleness and vinyl-like smoothness. We have all been inculcated since birth by these standards to the extent that even when we can rationalise how nefarious they are, it doesn’t really touch the sides of our internal belief system. I believe women should feel liberated to age naturally. I still don’t want to do that though. Deep down inside (ok, not even that deep), I can’t get over my desire to maintain a connection to my youth.
Beyond simple power structures, I do think it is worth mentioning that the edification of youth is the flip side of our pretty understandable dread of death. An ambition to continue to feel and look youthful is in direct contrast to our feelings about our expiration date, and that encompasses any of its portents—including the way we look when we close in on it. Any attempt to halt the visible sands of time is—arguably—therefore only a logical response to financial, social and cultural power structures, bolstered by our most primal fear of all. If the dynamics were different, perhaps we would be getting wrinkles burnished into our foreheads. But it isn’t and we aren’t.
My biggest issue (and a big issue trying to write this bloody piece), is that I could argue it both ways with passion. I could say and mean that we should quiet our own narcissism for the sake of the next generation. For the women to come for whom our endless tweakments have created a whole new benchmark of what 40, 50, 60 and beyond looks like. I could also rage that we shouldn’t be spending our time, money and headspace sat in clinics and surgeries up and down the country when the majority of men have not even once seriously considered doing so. I could come up with 65 valid and defensible reasons to keep my face injectable-free.
But I’ll still be getting my Botox.
What I have tried, at least in my head, is to be clear on why I’m doing it and who it’s for. The answers to all the above are totally personal and thus arbitrary, so I cast no aspersions on anyone else doing it for any other reasons. But I am 100% sure that I am only having my face injected because I’m vain. It’s not because I’m insecure, it’s not because I think it will make other people think x, y or z about me. When my normal facial contours and movements inevitably return to factory settings (I only do temporary injectables which get metabolised), I don’t ever feel the compulsion to IMMEDIATELY freeze my face again, like say I do with a chipped or broken nail or inch-plus grey roots (yep, ageism again). I get round to it in the end, but I don’t feel wrinkle shame or anything like that. Yes, my vanity touch points have most likely been shaped by the world around me and the powers that seek to profit from my potential self-hate. But I don’t feel negatively about my non-frozen face. It’s fine! I just prefer the 2.0.
I’m also totally sure that I choose to have these treatments to maintain my youthfulness rather than enhance my sex appeal. Both equally as shallow and venal, but you need to stare your frailties in the face and know your true motivations. Personally, it’s not about the male gaze, so no boobs, bums, lips or anything along those lines. I also—and this is a question of taste—do not want to look like my skin has been pulled taut and shiny, stuffed full to bursting with pockets of ersatz flesh before it’s iced into non-moving quartz. I remember during my days at Grazia doing a lot of travelling around the world amongst an international clique, oiled with liquid money. At the time visible ‘work’ was all the rage and the richwomanface had become positively cat-like. If this is your thing, wonderful. For me, I’m only interested in treatments which aim to make me look like me, but fresh, rather than a younger version of someone else with better facial symmetry. I’m sure there are plenty of onlookers who think I should be doing more of this or that, because people have a lot of opinions. But what I’m looking to do is age ‘nearly’ naturally, which is of course a total paradox. To get there, I have baby Botox injections on my crow’s feet and frown lines twice a year and have just started getting polynucleotide injections (a bio-stimulator which kickstarts cellular regeneration) around my eyes and jawline. I’ve also had laser treatments, all sorts of intrusive facials, and I use prescription topical skincare—so we’re definitely some way beyond soap and water. In saying that, I’m trying to always keep my head and not just lube myself up for a slide down this slippery slope.
When I look to my peers, every friendship group is slightly different. Amongst my London school gate friends, I’d say I’m about average in my approach to aesthetics and injectables. Amongst my girlfriends in the fashion industry and American circle I’m more reserved in terms of intervention. But does it matter? Where are the lines? Who calls what is and isn’t ‘acceptable’ and what is ‘extreme’? Does it go skincare < needles < knife? What if the surgery is nearly invisible and has basically no downtime? How does that compare with a gnarly acid peel (skincare) that takes the top layer or your skin off and keeps you in a darkened room for week? Where is the extreme? Is it about the level of pain? Take fillers. Dermal fillers include numbing agent, so are relatively painless to inject whereas DNA polynucleotides are all natural, so they don’t have any pain relief in the cannula. Does that make them ‘worse’?
One major concern of course, is that slippery slope mentioned above. The first time I went to see my aesthetician (who is also a GP specialising in dermatology, women’s health and longevity), I came away without a single pinprick, still tussling with myself over whether or not I should take the plunge. I had the face scan, got the products and chickened out. Now two years later, I think nothing of Botox, it’s like getting my fringe trimmed. My personal lines of worse and acceptable have blurred with my wrinkles. And that I think is the fear that so many of us who are dabbling harbour. What if we take that one step too far and never find a way back?
I can’t pretend that I don’t absolutely love the results of my tweekments. I love them, because, you know…the vanity and what I have been coached to believe is attractive. But at the same time, I know I’m colluding with a problematic pressure, a pressure against which I am politically opposed. I know that there is an inherent cowardice to this piece and my choices. Conforming to something which I know to be pernicious shows a distinct lack of courage. The truth is that I’ve felt simultaneously both empowered and guilty for every treatment I’ve had. Because I can argue both ways so convincingly, I feel both sides of the coin at once. I wish I was a cycle-breaker, that I was less of a hypocrite and ultimately less vainglorious and in thrall to the external standards imposed on us all. But I don’t and I’m not, and a lot of you aren’t either, so here we are.
As a final note, the last thing I would ever aim to do is influence anyone to do anything they weren’t already set on when it comes to this context, and I hope that my split feelings here speak to anyone else who is going to and fro. But at the same time, not being upfront and frank about what I’m doing would feel like a bigger betrayal. I did not wake up like this. For better or worse, I’ve done what Cher never could: both turned back time and found a way.