About Face

Dozens of women mill around a Carmel plastic surgeon’s office, all of us smeared with what looks like white cake-frosting in an absurd mockery of a Fu Manchu mustache. Sipping wine and nibbling canapes, we’re waiting to become comfortably numb, as Pink Floyd would say. The cream-cheese frosting is actually a topical anesthetic, and we’re kicking back while it takes effect. Everybody but me, it seems, is a veteran of this scene, women thoroughly acquainted with what might be called the frequent-flyer program of injectables. Everybody but me, it seems, knows that “injectables” refers to Botox Cosmetic and aesthetic facial fillers.

I’m attending one of the periodic open houses at Winslow Facial Plastic Surgery. An array of coveted cosmetic procedures to choose from, and none of them really appeals to me. Not permanent makeup (all I can visualize is the possibility of waking up looking like Heath Ledger as The Joker); not laser hair removal; not facial fillers; not Botox. The only procedure I’m eager to try—liposuction—is not on the list of options at this event. Thus, my desire for it increases exponentially.

What is on the menu, besides complimentary food and wine, is causing lines to form, and I don’t mean on anybody’s face. The lines snake to one station for the tried-and-true Botox, and another for facial fillers, which are the latest fad in wrinkle abatement. Names are taken. A designated “traffic cop” keeps fights from breaking out. Injectables are discounted during these events, and the supply is subject to running out. Tensions have been known to erupt.

One woman, her broken leg in a cast, limps in to await her injections. I see women from every sector of contemporary life: young girls in fashionably ripped jeans; unpretentious soccer moms; bejeweled older babes. I thought it would be all upper-crust society-type dames or movie stars on the down-low, but that is so not the case. One woman gets filler in her cheeks, which she says have sunk. Another woman says her daughter started getting injectables at 26 because she’s a “lowbrow.” Say again? It seems the daughter has a naturally low-hanging brow that requires Botox to hoist up.

I want to pooh-pooh it all, to rise above all this frippery with a disdainful superiority. But I’ve crossed over to the other side now, and I have a tale to tell. If you think this is going to be one of those life-affirming stories that ends with a mandate to Develop One’s Inner Beauty, you are definitely reading the wrong story. This story, friends, is about Outer Beauty.