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Just last week at a very chic gallery opening, I was telling the story of my backstreet botched Botox drama to a model and her very chic friend. And they both told me that it’s fine to have no answers, to go through the motions of the ugly-not-ugly roundabout because “everyone is ugly at twenty-eight.” They were joking about the age, but they also kind of weren’t. Everyone is kind of ugly at twenty-eight. Or thirty-eight. Or at some point in their life when their sense of self-worth is sunken by the feelings of inadequacy or the idea that you’ve been treating your body “badly.” This might come when you’re particularly hungover, when you’ve eaten nothing but fries for an entire week, or when you’ve done something actually not so nice like bitching about a friend behind their back.
It was 2018, and I was twenty eight, lying there in a darkened hotel room, paying a backstreet Botox doctor in cash to knock out the wrinkles on my forehead. Two weeks later this botchjob would set in, and my flat mate would look at me with worry. I looked at my face in the mirror, my right eyelid drooped slightly and my forehead looked oddly like sliced cheese, I had done what only 85-year-old Upper East Side women are supposed to do and I’d botched my face. For weeks following I’d be told I looked “kinda gormless,” “unwell,” “very very shiny?”
This new distance between yourself and your reflection, put there by whatever moral compass you live by and however you’ve breeched it, is the feeling they were talking about. There are some shitty things we do that make us feel shitty about ourselves, which might spill over into the way we feel about how we look. So you sent a nude to your best-friends ex? That’s bad. You walked out of an independent restaurant and you know they forgot to put the mains on the check? Not great.
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