Our 45+ beauty columnist Fiona Gibson on why she’s yet to succumb to the needle.
It felt that way at a birthday party last weekend. Women I know to be around the same age as me were eerily youthful – lovely, but definitely ‘done.’ And I’m not, and never will be. Not because I disapprove – we are all entitled to do whatever we want in order to feel good about facing the day. It’s the fact that I can’t accept that Botox isn’t a really big deal.
‘It’s great when it’s done well,’ friends keep insisting. That’s the alarming part, implying that it isn’t always (come on, we’ve all seen the spooky ice-rink faces). And I’m the sort of person to whom things tend to go awry, beauty-wise. Having my eyebrows threaded resulted in the entire lot being ripped off apart from about seven traumatised hairs. I’ve even had disastrous highlights in the form of fat yellow stripes which cost me a fortune to rectify.
Also, if I had Botox and my family found out – which they would, as I’d stop looking so scowly – they would literally collapse laughing. I probably shouldn’t care about my husband and children’s opinions – but I do. I don’t want them to think that ageing bothers me so much that I’m prepared to pay hundreds of pounds for someone to jab their poky needles in my face. I’d especially hate my 12 year-old daughter to grow up thinking that there’s something shameful about ageing. How could I encourage her to feel confident and accepting of herself if I was rushing off to have my lines ironed out?
The crux, I suppose, is that I’m not concerned enough to do anything about them. While I’m not wild about the slight drooping of everything (I am a former beauty editor, after all), I know that to fix all that would take more than a tiny injection here and there. And the wrinkles are fine, really. My face reminds me of our old, cheap DFS sofa – a bit saggy from being pummelled about by the kids, but still comfy enough. I’m neither radiantly youthful not completely condemned (a small miracle considering how much I abused myself in my twenties).
I’ll admit I’m not immune to the odd ‘Hell, I’m so old’ crisis of confidence. It tends to happen after a throwaway remark from my mother: eg, ‘I see you’ve had your hair cut.’ (Poignant silence). She turned up a few weeks ago clutching a glamorous blue and gold pot of moisturiser. ‘This is for your SKIN,’ she barked, peering at me in an odd way. For a moment, I was worried. ‘Christ,’ I thought, ‘I must look like a hag.’ And I pictured the Daily Mail headline: Women are far more knackered-looking than they think they are. Had I been flaunting my crevices without even realising?
Then I remembered that this was my mother talking, and that we are lucky to live in the era of serums, great foundations and Instagram. So there really is nothing to worry about.
Photo credit: flickr / Nathan F
