After years of refusing, a free Botox event made me reconsider everything
By the time I got to 58, I’d named the “11s” etched between my brows for my two children. The tragedies and comedies of decades of adulting scratched crinkles around my eyes and mouth. I’d thought I’d learned to accept each mark the same way I’d learned to accept my surgical scars, as commemorative tokens of endurance, like dendrochronological rings on a tree.
Instead of leaning into self-criticism and correction, summers spent with my elders on Italian beaches always affirmed what they taught me by example: The tremendous amount of energy Americans squander trying to hold back the tidal wave of time could be better spent. That is, until I was invited to a free Botox event hosted by Dr. Anil Shah, a plastic surgeon.
Aging Gracefully Sounds Simpler Than It Feels
This innocuous invitation launched me full-throttle into an existential dilemma. We all contain multitudes, and when it came to Botox, my multitudes had been in a prolonged, decades-long standoff with each other. Intellectually, I’d maintained the staunch belief that ageism won’t change until we firmly resist it—and that starts with accepting ourselves as we age. Yet, my experience with aging was a lifelong push-pull between accepting myself “as is,” as one might a thrifted sweater with slight stains or pulls, and the temptation to “gild the lily”—a phrase the plastic surgeon who corrected my deviated septum used when I was 20.
I’d often been told I “look good for my age” (whatever that even means), and I’m not sure exactly when it started to happen after 55, but when I looked in the mirror, I looked tired in a way I didn’t feel. Sure, there is no shortage of influencers who make self-love through the last lap look glamorous and easy, but the journey there is more complex, involving a series of tiny decisions about how we see ourselves at each junction.
Before I could ruminate about my foibles any further, I accepted the invitation, figuring I could chicken out should I change my mind. Mind you, this event was in mid-March—long before The Cut published this piece examining the very same quandary from a 30s perspective. It was compelling to read a take from someone raised when Botox was embedded in the life of every woman. When you’re 58, you grew up thinking you’d likely have no choice but to age naturally, and you’ve had a lot longer to sit with the philosophical disconnect behind being OK with who and where you are and wanting to preserve your dewy youth. Born rebellious at an oppressive, misogynistic time into an oppressive, misogynistic culture, I was preternaturally dismissive of the male gaze as motivation for anything for much of my life, but the ramifications of the male gaze are insidious and run deep.
Other than my withering visage, a lot has changed over the past 25 years, since I was the same age-ish as Emmeline Cline, the writer of that piece. When I was in my 30s in the early aughts, I was swimming upstream in a man’s world (as we still, unfortunately, are) because, consciously or unconsciously, I was still conditioned to care about how I looked, and longed to experience the power of persuasion that comes with pretty privilege. The residue of this is something I’ve been actively working to wash off.
Back then, Botox was a secret aging solution for celebrities and rich people. A working writer who only rarely appeared on TV, the thought of getting botulism injected into my face to stave off the inevitable seemed like a waste of money. Now, thanks to the TikTok of it all, everyone is a self-anointed talking head, blasting their mugs all over the place without a single qualm. As a result, we’re all walking around a lot more aware of how we might look on camera. It’s no wonder that so many women in their 20s are so petrified of how the hands of time might change them.
Ageism Is a Wily Beast, Intent On Chasing Women Into the Woods
Cline and her friends grew up witnessing how ageism is a wily beast, intent on chasing women into the woods. In a cutthroat, youth-driven business where my colleagues are often half my age, I’m acutely aware of “The Menopause Penalty,” and how women my age and much younger have been devalued right out of their jobs. For Gen X, the retirement age, like the drinking age, shifted upward out of necessity just as we got there, yet we’re shoved out of our jobs prematurely due to age discrimination, just when we’re finally supposed to be able to coast.
According to a recent paper published in the Harvard Kennedy Review, 35 percent of unemployed workers for more than 24 weeks are over the age of 55, and 24 percent of people over 50 who are laid off never find another job.
As a result, some of my friends felt compelled to get Botox in their 40s to stay professionally competitive. I detested that ageism was a factor in their decision-making with all my might, yet championed this choice for them—what anyone does or doesn’t do to their appearance is none of my business. But any woman who chooses to get Botox or plastic surgery or whatever should do so because they want it for themselves, not because they feel pressured by society to erase time as if it were a bad thing.
Would getting Botox be akin to dumbing down my resume for me? Are any tweaks Madonna (67) might’ve made to her appearance responsible for building or eroding her confidence or relevance? Absolutely not. But, on the other hand, model Paulina Porizkova (61) says she has forsaken the Bo and the knife, opting instead to embrace her wrinkles. But if you don’t have the abundant earning opportunities of a Madonna or Paulina, what then?
The Wrinkles Were Never the Real Issue
Finally, my Botox reckoning was upon me, and I went to Dr. Shah’s office cloaked in reticence and mining my brain for excuses, just in case. Adolescent orthodontics had left me with hardcore TMJ—since Botox injections are a common treatment for TMJ, I figured I could at least ask for a few shots to help my jaw relax. I pelted him with questions, like whether 58 was too late for Botox (not at all), whether all the expression would drain out of my face (again, no). I insisted I wasn’t trying to erase 30 years; I just wanted to look like I’d slept. He carefully assessed my face for how it moved, assuring me he’d only “soften” areas on my forehead and my jaw. As he assured me of his minimalism and filled his vials, he reminded me it would only be a matter of months before all evidence of his handiwork would be but a memory. Caught wincing, I cracked up when his product rep tossed me a breast implant to clutch like a stress ball.
It then finally dawned on me that this decision, in the end, wasn’t all that serious. So, I let Dr. Shah do his thing, and I’m pleased with the results. My issue with Botox over the past 20 years had nothing to do with a few units of botulism, and everything to do with why women feel they have to reverse the clock to stay relevant in systems designed to punish them for aging, no matter what they do. I still hold onto the Italian sensibility that women should be allowed to age naturally, gracefully, and with dignity. But permitting myself to get Botox for the benefit of my own gaze is, in its own way, a feminist act.
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