I did something I never thought I would ever do.
I had Dysport injected into my face. Who Dys? I hear you say. It’s a close relative of Botox, which uses Botulinium Toxin to relax your muscles to a point that they can no longer contract. Goodbye, forehead lines. Farewell crow’s feet.
I’m 37-and-a-half, and despite having friends who swear by the jab, taking the needle-train to Tox Town has never been on my to-do list.
As a freelance journalist and beauty editor, I’m often invited to trial different treatments. I’ve always said no to needles.
But this time, something stopped me. I think it was the moment I inspected my face too closely and for too long, until all I saw was a potato with frown lines.
Yes, I decided, this potato was finally going down the cosmetic injectables path, if only in the name of (youth-boosting, face-smoothing) research.
A few weeks later, I’m sitting on a bed in Natalie Abouchar’s Privée Clinic, set in a picturesque tree-lined street in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs. Natalie is lovely – just the right amount of chatty and professional with a warmth that puts me instantly at ease.
Ever wondered what cosmetic injections feel like? Imagine there’s a bee. A beautiful bee, dressed in a pristine white coat, whose sole priority is to lovingly sting you at the exact points of your face that will relax the muscles, ensuring you look infinitely well-rested.
It’s worth noting here that I am not well rested. I work late. I am the mother of a three-year old girl who refuses to sleep for more than four hours at a time.
I am also the mother of a Staffy, whose nightly let-me-outside-to-not-wee-but-waste-time-sniffing-leaves whining has me lurching out of bed until the early hours of the morning (nope, still sniffing leaves) at which point child wakes up and wants to do puzzles. I am the opposite of well rested. I am haggardly un-well-rested, kept artificially alive by caffeine. But I digress.