I was reading the newspaper this week and I stumbled across the Femail section; a place where this particular tabloid puts all the articles that people don’t actually want to read, but might peruse if waiting in the doctor’s surgery/being forced to watch Match of the Day/bedridden.
And I came across an article about ‘pumping parties’. Apparently this is a new thing taking America by storm, where gaggles of yummy mummies or ladies that lunch meet up and have Botox because it is cheaper than actually having it legally.
I don’t know about you, and I know that my opinion might be skewed as I am in my twenties, wrinkle free (praise the lord!) and not considering pumping death into my face at any point, but when I meet up with my friends at someone’s house it normally involves a lot of food, copious amounts of wine and some raucous giggling. “I know girls, let’s put needles in our faces!!” would go down like a lead balloon.
And here comes my rant about Botox.
It’s a form of poison. It’s a strain of botulism and in the olden days it was referred to as the ‘sausage poison’ (waheeeey!) so why you would actively seek someone to squirt it into your face is beyond me.
Maybe I’m lucky. My mother definitely doesn’t look like she is in her fifties and my daddy looks young for his age, so maybe my thought process is shaped by the hope that my genetics will make me age like Joanna Lumley (gracefully) and I will not want to look like a waxwork version of myself, with fish lips and a permanently perplexed look. I have visions of the chat with my sister when we are in our sixties and I have just had Botox.
Her “Pull a sad face! Now pull a happy face! Nope, it’s the same face. Try an angry face. No, same face. You just permanently look like a rabbit caught in headlights. Sort of surprised-confused. You look stupid!”
I think that the scariest thing about Botox is that when you stop having it, it makes the whole aging process worse and your face ends up looking like an old sofa that has had far too much use over the years. Saggy and fading.
When I was seventeen I worked in a cosmetics department on the weekends to fund my shopping habit (3 a day doesn’t sound like much, until you realise I am talking about garments and accessories). We had this new lip gloss come in that was supposed to be like Botox in a gloss, and make your lips all plump and pouty, ala Angelina! We all tried it. Lord knows why, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my lips as they are, but oh well, everyone was doing it so like a lamb to the slaughter, I popped a bit on. It stung. Like I had been stung, on the lip, by a wasp. Now I think about it I have a recollection of it being called Lip Venom, so I probably should have backed away carefully. My colleague felt the burning sensation so badly that she wiped it off her lips with the back of her hand,. Smearing it across her cheek. Within minutes her cheek and hand had risen in a welt, and she had to go and wash her face. I think they still sell it, surprised that stuff made it through health and safety!
Let’s hear it for growing old (dis)gracefully!