About a year ago, I got botulinum toxin injected into my face for the first time. As a woman of the aughts, this seemed almost like an inevitability, especially once I moved to Los Angeles, the land of face modification and cheap med spas. Here, you can walk into a clinic and get Botox on demand for around $10 a unit, which is pretty casual and cheap for a medical procedure. My reasons for doing it back then were multifold: first, I’d been asking various dermatologists for years if they thought I was “ready” for Botox. I never knew exactly what I meant, but hoped the experts would have an opinion, which of course they did not.
“Do you feel ready for it? What issues are you trying to address?”
I didn’t really feel ready for it. And the issue was aging in a society that cannot wait to toss me in a dumpster at the first sign of decline.
I’d also heard something about there being an injection point above your brows that can help you achieve a bit of a brow lift. I like my brows just fine, but my eyelids can appear droopy, and this sounded like an easy fix. Also, I’m just fucking curious! Aren’t we all curious about how much “better” we could look if we gave it a try? Actually doing it is another thing, but I have very little patience once I’ve decided to dip my toe into something. So I called the fanciest med spa in my neighborhood and headed in for a consultation.
Long story short: the actual procedure takes about five minutes and a tiny bit of the type of pain we are all used to—that of a typical injection. In my hood, it costs anywhere from $200 to $500 a pop, give or take, depending on your proximity to Beverly Hills. (The dosages are in “units,” which are proprietary, so who knows exactly how much botulinum toxin each one contains. But I gather from my conversations with clinicians that on the low end you’re looking at 10 units, average is 40, and it can go up from there. The effects last anywhere from three to six months, possibly longer.)
At that first appointment, I was hesitant to get the whole shebang. All I really wanted was a little eye opener and maybe for that permanent, angry crease between my brows to be softened. When I smile, my crows feet are long and prominent, but they are also the signature ingredient to the outward expression of my happiness. The reverse is true of my scowl lines, or “the 11s,” as Botox marketers have rebranded them. I wasn’t interested in stunting my full smile capabilities, but maybe not being able to scowl could win me some new friends, or a promotion, or some sex, or something? I was relieved to hear I’d only need 20 units.
Also, I thought, I’m a beauty editor and Botox is one of the biggest things to happen to the beauty world in centuries. What am I waiting for?
The history of Botox is kind of hilarious. Botulism was first discovered in some rotten blood sausages back in 1820. (Can you even imagine?) The maniac who discovered it then went on to inject himself with varying amounts of the poisonous organism, just, you know, to see what it could do. He found that it caused paralysis, which could be deadly. Then, in the late 1800s, someone brought a bad ham to a post-funeral dinner party in Belgium and some people died. Another mad scientist caught wind, and bingo-bango, he did a bunch of research and eventually all of the different strains of botulism were sussed out and named.
From there, of course, we tried to figure out a way to use it as a weapon. During World War II, some evil geniuses devised a plan to have prostitutes sneak botulism capsules into the cocktails of high-ranking Japanese military personnel, but the plan never materialized. Eventually, someone was like, “Hey, remember that paralysis stuff from a hundred years ago? Let’s chill on the warmongering for a second and see if we can do anything kindhearted and revolutionary with this.” And then they did. The first major medical use of botulinum toxin took hold in the early ‘80s: a treatment for strabismus, or crossed eyes. By essentially relaxing specific muscles which control movement in the eye, it was finally possible for some patients to avoid risky surgeries. Oh, and hey, guess what was a “lucky” side effect? No more frown lines. Voila. It was approved by the FDA for cosmetic use in 2002. Twelve years later, I went in for my first injection.
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