Many people dream of becoming novelists. What more could one want than to spend the days tip tapping away at the keys, creating worlds and fantasies in a dreamy, Woolfian room – ideally a garret – of one’s own? The masterpieces flow by candlelight and the works are greeted with acclaim as the writer hunches their shoulder over a fresh manuscript, mysterious and reclusive.
Alas, being a writer in the 21st century is only about 70 per cent shutting yourself away in your garret/corner of the livingroom where the robot vacuum also lives. The other 30 per cent is self-promotion – interviews, photoshoots, appearances, Instagram videos, TikTok trends. With five books under my belt, I’ve done them all. Done them with gratitude, mind you, despite my deep aversion to appearing in front of a camera and an even profounder aversion to viewing the finished product.
With a sixth book due out this May (along with my co-author Sarah Breen), my promo panic set in months ago. I’d started to feel really quite haggard, a result of reaching an age I cannot identify with spiritually, decades of over serving and under moisturising myself, and indulging in far too much of that wicked thief of joy, comparison. All around me were the smooth foreheads and wrinkle-free temples of my peers and despite previous resolve that I wasn’t ever going to get any “tweakments”, I booked my first Botox appointment.
It was the deep crevice between my eyebrows that ultimately drove me into the arms of Dr K and her syringe of muscle paralyser, albeit after cancelling and rebooking the appointment about six times. These crevices are known as “elevens” in the facial aesthetics biz and mine had been digging deep for years. I arrived to Dr K a bag of nervous energy. She came highly recommended, so I was in no doubt as to her competence. I was more worried about my decision to go ahead with the appointment. What about my principled feminist stance on ageing with grace and gratitude? What about the cost involved? What if I ended up looking nothing like myself? Or worse, what if I looked exactly the same?
READ MORE
Dr K’s clinic offers a deal. Three areas for €300 and a fourth one free, if you want it. I went in doubting I’d even get the three. “Just give me the tiniest bit,” I pleaded, “I don’t want to look like an Easter Island statue.” We agreed on three areas – my elevens, my forehead and my crow’s feet by my eyes. Dr K assured me that she’d be light-handed and away we went.
All it took was around three-and-a-half minutes and Dr K standing back to admire her handiwork, murmuring “You have great skin”, for me to be a convert. I barely felt a thing, needlewise, but as soon as I knew the Botox had been injected into place I was overcome with a newfound lease of life. I was a woman in Stem. I was taking back my power. I was actually engaging in the height of feminism and bodily autonomy. I didn’t even look any different. Botox takes two weeks to reach peak efficacy. It didn’t matter. I was gripped by a lust for more. “What are the options for the fourth area,” I gasped, picturing myself dazzling strangers on the street and being mistaken for a toddler. Dr K threw out some unfamiliar terms like “bunny lines” and “chintox”, but when she uttered the immortal words “lip flip” I sat forward in the chair. “Give me the lip flip Dr K.”
True to her word, she was light-handed with all of it. The lip flip injections were so minuscule that it barely took effect at all, which I was fine with. Three months later the forehead, eyebrow and temple changes have been subtle, but I have just felt better knowing I had it done. Do I feel a pinch of disappointment in myself as I admit that? Yes. But I’ve also been so much more invested in looking after my skin and general self-care, so where’s the harm, really? Besides, I’ve been dying my hair since I was 13 and I have more than 20 tattoos. Why have I been so tied up in knots about getting a procedure that is infinitely more temporary?
[ ‘I couldn’t open my eye’: the dangers of unlicensed Botox procedures in IrelandOpens in new window ]
I left the clinic and wandered around a nearby Marks & Spencer, wondering if I looked any different (spoiler: I didn’t) and imagining that I could feel the toxins coursing through my body. Then I copped on, bought myself a chicken Caesar wrap and got on with my life. I’m back in Dr K’s chair this week. I can’t wait.
