- I got Botox because I hated my forehead lines.
- While it made them disappear, I also lost my ability to move my eyebrows for months.
- It was harder to express joy or silliness, and made me seem crabbier to people
I zoomed in on the photo my fiancé just took of me, the one he snapped moments after we got engaged.
“Ugh, what is that!” I squeaked, hovering over the two long creases stretched across my forehead.
Anytime I complained about my wrinkles to him or my friends, I always got some variation of “PLEASE” and “Um, I think you have facial dysmorphia.” But that didn’t matter; nor did the fact that I’d see other women my age with the same thin lines on their foreheads, a natural side consequence of being alive, and found theirs genuinely beautiful. I still wanted to make mine disappear.
After trying to banish them with face taping and a slew of anti-aging products, I finally decided to try Botox for the first time.
The expected result? It worked! The skin above my eyes was taut and smooth, as if I spent my 32 years peacefully drifting through a pastel-hued mansion and not a good chunk of them cramped in a New York apartment during a pandemic.
The unexpected downside? I lost a key facial expression, making me seem mad, bored, or depressed when I was actually excited (or at least neutral).
My friends and family couldn’t read my expressions
I have a monotone voice. No matter how interested or passionate I am in a subject, when I play back audio recordings of my source interviews, all I hear is Nathan Fielder.
For years, I’ve relied on my eyebrows to express myself, from shock to exuberance. My college photos all feature my brow lifting to my hairline in surprise or joy, which is why I had these lines in the first place. (That, and neglecting sunscreen for most of my 20s).
I didn’t reveal getting Botox to everyone right away, giving no explanation to why my eyebrows suddenly ceased to lift. But once I did, people in my life were relieved.
“I was wondering why you looked so mad,” my mom said over the holidays.
A friend, hearing me retell the proposal story, thought I was secretly going through some turmoil, and even privately asked my other friend if I was doing ok. When she learned I got Botox, the sudden lack of my usual facial expressions made sense. Both friends laughed when I showed them the proof: I strained to create even the slightest crinkle or dent in my forehead, save a faint twitch in my right eyebrow.
I was excited when my Botox started wearing off
After about a month, the Botox started to gently lose its grip. While the lines didn’t stick, I could move my face as freely as I did before.
When I first got them, I hoped my Botox injections could last as long as possible to get my money’s worth (one session is $300-$500, on average). I even worried that working out as much as I do would make them metabolize faster.
But once they started fading at the two month mark, I was relieved. I was in the ideal, albeit very short-lived spot: able to express myself without the evidence that I had.
I lost a part of my face I didn’t know I loved
Now, I’m at the end point of my Botox treatment. The lines are faint, but returning. Surprisingly, I’m pretty glad.
I always felt conflicted about Botox or similar anti-aging procedures. It felt like a personal betrayal to obsess over ageist beauty standards, especially ones that can have unpleasant side effects like face drooping. Besides, Botox is not something I’d realistically keep up since I plan to have kids. The injections are potentially dangerous during pregnancy and breastfeeding, and I can’t see myself keeping a Botox budget considering how expensive childcare is.
Still, I don’t know if I’ll never get it again: the few months I had of not agonizing over my wrinkles and thinking about literally anything else were nice, too. I took photos and didn’t spiral into critiquing my looks, only to spiral over spiraling over my critiquing my looks. I thought about weightlifting and romance novels instead.
I’m relieved that I didn’t love Botox, and that I will always feel ambivalent about it. The experience was like a spell in a fairytale: in order to look younger, I had to give up the part of my face I ironically associate most with my youth — with goofiness and elation and an utter disregard for how I will look in the future.