Surprised, Sad, Happy? You’ll have to ask…
I was introduced to a lovely lady who had very obviously — and very recently — spent time having fluids injected into her lips.
It was hard not to stare.
Swollen mounds moved independently as she tried to coordinate lips and teeth into words. The weeping injection spots were uncomfortable for everyone.
I understand the desire to add some scaffolding. Truly. Gravity is relentless. Smooth a wrinkle here, defy it there.
But talking to someone with a face full of Botox is a guessing game of emotions. It would be less confusing if we could just text.
Faces of the 90’s
Growing up, I became adept at spotting surgical enhancement from a mile away. Our home was a haven for recovery.
I recall many mornings sitting across from a solemn, bandaged face. Eyes bruised. Breakfast sipped through a straw.
I would carefully align the cereal box in front of me to dull the horror. Even now, I’m fairly sure I could recite the ingredients of Corn Flakes on command.
This was before Botox.
Back then, it was all about the knife.
My favourite time was when the ladies who lunched would get together.
It was easy to pick the Lower Lifters — work done on the jowls. The top lip is never quite straight.
After a few champers, muscles relaxed a little too much and the glass would miss the mouth entirely.
Their shoulder — and your shoes — would be soaked in Moweee
(aka Moët & Chandon).
Ah. The early 90’s.
The Upper Lifters — work done on the frown line — were bat-shit scary.
Their faces were on.
All.
The.
Time.
If they smiled — or God forbid, laughed — it was painful to watch. They were frozen into a single expression for life.
Just one.
Once, an Upper Lifter fell asleep on the couch next to me. She snored loudly.
As I leaned in to give her a gentle time-for-bed nudge, I recoiled in horror.
Her eyes were not closed.
She was sleeping
with her eyes
open.
Don’t even get me started on the Face Peelers.
I’m not judging.
I’m just curious.me started on the Face Peelers.