My face has always been okay. Objectively okay. I mean, there were some rough times as a kid and teenager when it was ravaged by pimples and had the anti-glow of someone with zero confidence, but by age 27 it was on the way. Cheekbones sitting at the right spot. Teeth fixed shaping my chin properly. Clear skin, unprone to reddening.
I even hosted a TV show once, so my face, yeah, it’s objectively okay and I’d go as far to say that for most of my thirties, I actually liked it.
In my late thirties, moving back to the very image-conscious Sydney, I started to become curious about who had Botox and found when I started the conversation the most surprising people in my world had it. I work in theatre and media, so I expected actors to have it (most I chatted with didn’t), but I’d be surprised when I’d hear that some of my radio producer friends did. It became normal-ish.
A friend gave me the number of a great woman for when I was ready. I’ve never been ready.
Until, maybe, now?
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