Drooling for Beauty
Originally published in the Globe and Mail Facts and Arguments Section
By
Catherine Fogarty
Okay, I did it. I’ll admit it. I had Botox injections. I’m 48 years old so there’s no point in lying. Apparently everyone does it. Aimee at the office has been doing it for years and she’s only 34. Cory too, but according to Aimee, he faints every time. Kristine does it for migraines (sure!) and Melissa, well… everyone knows about Melissa. Botox, liposuction, filler, dermabrasion, you name it, and she’s done it. And those boobs, but hey, I’m not judging.
For years I’d never really contemplated any form of cosmetic enhancement. The Hollywood horror stories terrified me and I’d overheard too many girlfriends commenting on other women’s ‘work.’ We can spot it a mile away. Nope, not for me, I was going to age naturally. Besides, I had already invested a small fortune on anti-aging products. My simple morning routine consisted of face cream, under eye cream, BB cream, concealer, cover up, make-up and I never left the house without sunscreen (SPF 60 for this natural redhead). Every night my bedtime ritual involved cleanser, toner, night cream, brown spot cream, and the occasional mask. But I had to wonder, was there a simpler way? Maybe I had already missed critical years on the war against aging. What if it was too late? Like good oral hygiene, regular exercise and RRSP contributions, I should have started when I was younger. Was I really starting to look my age?
Soon I was obsessed. Staring into my brand new vanity mirror (with a 20x magnifier), I searched for every imperfection. Each day it seemed like a new line appeared, taunting me. My freckles joined forces and turned into brown blotches overnight. “Good God, was that a hole in my cheek?”
What was happening to me? I googled celebrities born in the same year. I had to compare. Hold the Botox, I was in good company, Cindy Crawford, Halle Berry, Salma Hayek, and Adam Sandler. Okay forgot Happy Gilmour, otherwise late ‘forty something’ looked just fine. But was I being naïve? Closer observation of my celebrity ‘sisters’ revealed wrinkle free foreheads and flawless complexions. Had I been misled by certain celebrities claiming to be 100% au natural? I too wanted to believe that I could cruise into my fifties with ‘no work’, and look like Jennifer Aniston. But with the evidence now clearly staring back at me line by deepening line, I knew I had to make the call.
One week later there I was, laying in the Dermatologist’s office, clenching a rubber ball in each fist as the Dr. injected small doses of botulinum toxin into my face. Seventeen small needle pricks to the corner of my eyes, top of my nose and the middle of my forehead. I was doing well, but then came the upper lip. This was the area of deepest concern (pardon the pun). As the needles went in, the tears welled in my eyes. How could such a small needle hurt so much? “Hang on,” I muttered to myself. “No pain, no gain.” I squeezed those balls tighter. I was not going to faint at the Dermatologists.
Before I could change my mind and run I was done, or so I thought. There was more. I had to do post injection exercises. “Just scrunch your face up like this”, the receptionist explained as she contorted her face into an evil looking jacko-lantern. “You need to work the Botox in. And don’t be alarmed when you start to drool,” she added. Drool? Did she say drool? I just spent $600.00 to drool? “Yes”, she continued, “Drooling is a natural side-effect as the Botox paralyzes your facial muscles. Here’s a pamphlet.”
And sure enough, one week later, I glanced in the bathroom mirror just in time to see toothpaste slowly oozing down my chin. Somehow I was unable to maneuver my upper lip around my toothbrush. Everything was falling out of my mouth! I was a dripping, drivelling disaster!
Damn that receptionist and her glossy brochure. Until that toothpaste moment I really thought I had beaten the odds. No facial paralysis nonsense for me. I had religiously worked on my facial exercises for at least five minutes on the day of the procedure. I had stared at myself in the mirror often (okay, maybe a little too often) to check on any signs of numbing or facial tics. But little did I know Botox takes its sweet, anesthetizing time. It slowly relaxes into your muscles and gradually, effortlessly paralyzes your muscles until you’re a blubbering, slobbering idiot. My face was freezing up on me and I needed a baby’s bib to brush my teeth. And what was my husband going to think? I had conveniently forgotten to mention the Botox appointment. How was I going to explain my new immobilized, ‘deer caught in the headlights’ look? “Umm, sorry for the drool honey, but how do you think I look?”
God, what had I done? Was this the price of my own vanity, my fear of aging? Could I not embrace my lines and wrinkles as part of aging gracefully? But then again, is partial paralysis and drooling for a few days really all that bad?
Lots to contemplate before my next appointment.