I got botox for the first time today. A light dose of 12 units. To some, it’s unpalatable to alter your face and defy the nature of aging ever, let alone starting at 30 years old. To others, I’m late to the game, as “botox is preventative.” The practice of cosmetic injections might be utterly mundane in reality, but to me, I crossed a bridge today as profound as any coming of age; like driving alone for the first time, or giving my first handjob. 

As I checked into the facility, filling out what seemed like an endless queue of release forms on an iPad, I listened to the receptionists and my nurse discuss best restaurants in the area. 

“I loved Fig and Olive.”

“It was amazing. I liked it much more than Catch.”

“The Catch in New York is better.”

“Everything in New York is better.” 

“It says I have to consent to the use of my photographs for learning purposes and marketing,” I interrupt. “It won’t let me submit without checking the box.” 

They assure me photos will be for my clinical records, and not for Instagram. The screen says something different, but I don’t have time to worry about it. I check the box and move on. 

In the consultation room, my nurse, Raffi, a 40 or 50 something year old married man, introduces himself and spells out his Instagram handle. He then asks, “So, tell me what’s bothering you. What’s been eating away at you that you want to correct?” 

I replied I was seeking preventative care, before any wrinkles form too deeply. “I turned 30 a few months ago, and a lot of my friends have already started botox,” I say, maybe justifying to myself why I’m there. “There is this one line between my eyebrows, though…”

 “I see it,” he says immediately. 

My nurse is a friendly guy, but it’s obvious he feeds off self-doubt, starting with “tell me what you hate about yourself” and continuing to jump on confirmation of any insecurity. This is how he makes his money though, so I understand the hustle. Like a new paint job, he needs to convince me that I need it. What an industry. 

Fortunately, I’m not 18 or even 25. At 30, I am fully aware of my own skin, being in it, and where it stands. In other words, I’m comfortable with myself. I accepted years ago I will never be the most beautiful woman in the world, and I find no use in torturing myself to dissect every imperfection in an effort to achieve that. I like what I like about myself, and that’s more than enough. 

He tells me he can start with 26 units across my forehead and eyes. It’s a standard dose, but it feels like a lot for my first time. I ask about my smile lines, “Do I need anything here?” He explains that would take fillers rather than botox. 

“Botox would numb the muscles and prevent you from smiling.”

“That’s ok, no fillers. Just botox for now.” I ask him for the lowest dose, so I can work my way up later if needed. 

He warns, “I don’t know that you’ll be happy with the results.” It might not be as strong or last as long as I would like. 

“I’ll notice something, though. Right?”

“Oh, definitely.” 

It’s already 1:30 pm, and I have lunch plans with a friend. Today was meant to be a consultation, but my nurse tells me he can squeeze me in as his last appointment. I’m going out of state to visit my parents for the holidays next week, so I figure I might as well get it done now. 

“Three minutes, right?”

“It will be very quick. You have a small forehead, so this will be easy.” 

Small forehead? I think. Is that a good or bad thing? 

He instructs me to furrow my brow as he snaps a photo. Then he asks me to raise my brows for another photo. He wipes my forehead with something that numbs it. 

“Where are you having lunch?”

“This place called Ardor.”

“That’s the restaurant in the hotel, right?”

“Yeah exactly.”

I close my eyes and feel the thinnest needle prick one side of my forehead. It continues all the way across, 5 little doses of venom entering my face. He goes to the spot between my eyebrows, and I log a mental check–Great, now that’s taken care of. As he goes in for the last injection, I feel his balls dangle on my crossed legs. It’s definitely weird, but was it intentional? The muddled waters of sexual harassment and abuse, it’s ridiculous how easy it is to come by. At any rate, the botox treatment really does take three minutes or less. 

I open my eyes, and he brings a mirror to my face. I am horrified to see 5 or 6 bulging lumps leaking blood on my forehead. He wipes the blood. “You’re not supposed to rub these areas, but if you need to dab the blood later, you can.”

“How long do these bumps last?” I ask, panicked. 

“10 minutes,” he says. 

We walk back to the lobby. He tells me I’ll enjoy Ardor and recommends I go to the hotel’s rooftop. He and his wife were there a couple months ago after dinner at Madeo. “It’s just on Sunset,” he says, “Once you’re on Melrose, it’s a right on La Cienega.” 

I think to myself, And so, this is Los Angeles. Cosmetic injections just so we can look good at brunch. This middle-aged nurse who administers poison for vanity purposes (and who grazed his penis against me) is now dishing about sceney restaurants like we’re 14 year old girls. Clearly there are far more important things in this world, but if you can’t find the slightest fraction of entertainment in such potent vapidness, never move to LA.

When I got in my car, the first thing I did was look in the mirror. The bumps were gone. I texted two of my friends immediately after treatment and planned on talking about it during lunch. One person I didn’t text was my boyfriend. I knew his opinions of botox and didn’t want to freak him out. I’d tell him at home. 

There are many arguments that can be made against botox or other cosmetic treatments, namely that it stems from deep insecurity or dysmorphia, a desperate attempt to deny natural processes in order to appease societal standards of beauty. I haven’t had those feelings. I just feel awesome right now, as if I, along with other women, are defying nature for as long as we can. Giving it the old college try.