Women In Plastic Masks

I'm not hugely interested in the Golden Globes. I don't watch a lot of TV, other than Mad Men, Entourage, Chelsea Lately and every episode ever made of Spongebob Squarepants. Oh, and documentaries on women obsessed with big breasts and the history of pole dancing. (What can I say? My husband hogs the remote.)

However, last night, after the kids were in bed, I idly turned on the GG coverage. A close friend of mine was there with her director husband, and I was hoping to catch a glimpse of them. I didn't, of course. This was partly because there were a lot of people there, and partly because my eyes kept going out of focus at the sight of Jake Gyllenhaal. My GOD have you seen him? But, er, anyway...

In the past, when I've watched the Globes, I've been in awe of the beauty of the actresses, and the finery of their clothes. (And, when Simon Baker has been in attendance, the gross unfairness of his being married to someone else.) This time, however, my feelings were very different.

I felt a bit sad.

The young women looked great, as young women do. But the older women looked better - freakishly, perfectly better. Like they were wearing tight, plastic masks of the faces they once had.

I KNOW everyone wants to look their best. I KNOW that Botox and fillers are a fact of the world. But this is different. These are women so surgically altered that they don't actually look like real people anymore. There is no expression in their faces. No softness. No lines. They are not the faces of mothers. They are not the faces of friends. They are not the faces of partners, or aunties, or sisters. They are the blank faces of perfect, surgically created beauty.

Now, I'm not arguing against plastic surgery. Everyone should have the choice to do what they want to do with their own bodies, provided that it doesn't hurt anyone else, including themselves. What saddens me is that women feel pressured to do this. Can you imagine the insecurity of these gorgeous, talented, accomplished women that inspire them to go under the knife, presumably repeatedly, in the desperate attempt to look 20 years younger than they are? I feel sorry for them. I truly do.

Yes, these are Hollywood stars. They have money. They have fame. They have success. But at the end of the day, they are women, and I believe that they are terrified. Terrified of losing their looks, which to them equates to losing everything. And I feel sorry for anyone who has to live their life in fear of something so inevitable, and natural, and normal.

We all want to look good. But when the need to look good is so extreme it leads to turning yourself into a plastic mask, it makes me sad.

The Stupidest Ad In The Entire World

The Stupidest Ad In The World is on Sydney radio at the moment (and yes, I know that's a big call, but I'm going to make it).

I won't disclose the name of the company because I don't want to give them any more publicity (and... you know... I haven't discounted the possibility of using them yet). Let me instead just take you through the ad.

A man is talking to his male friend about his wife.

"It's her birthday coming up," he says (or something to that effect). "She's turning 40."

"Great," says his friend (or something to that effect). "But you don't look very happy about it. What's up?"

"Oh, it's just that she always looks so tired," says the husband.

Well yes. Of course she's tired! She's 40 years old. She's married. She has kids. She probably works part time, too. Poor darling. Who wouldn't be tired?

"Well, I have the perfect gift idea for her," says the mate. Fabulous, I'm thinking. What a great guy. He is sensitive to his friend's wife's needs. No doubt he'd make a brilliant boyfriend. So what is he proposing? A holiday? A weekend away with the girls? A day at a health spa?

Well no. Not exactly.

Now, I can't tell you exactly what the mate suggests, because that would kind of be giving things away. Let me just say that I have put together a little video that gives an indication of how things might go, should the hubby take his friend's advice.

Which I strongly suggest he doesn't.



So what do you think? How would you feel if your partner bought you that for your birthday? If anyone bought you that for your birthday?

If anyone bought you that at all???

To B Or Not To B

Originally published in the AJN

The other day I spoke to an old friend of mine, a plastic surgeon I have known since childhood (when he wasn’t a plastic surgeon yet....er....obviously....).

We speak every few years and it was great to catch up. We talked about work, our kids, our spouses, and our lives, his in Melbourne, mine in Sydney. And all was fine. Until he said it.

The B word.

No, not ‘bum’ (although he did say ‘anus’ when discussing a particular surgical procedure, and no, I’m not going to reiterate that particular conversation).

It was Botox.

My friend injects a lot of Botox into a lot of people, as, one assumes, many plastic surgeons do. I had asked him about it, just to, you know, be polite, and... well.... to find who he’d injected it into (which, totally unreasonably, he refused to disclose).

I expressed my disinterest in having Botox myself. I was, I explained, perfectly content with my appearance, and very comfortable with the aging process. My friend smiled knowingly (or at least, he sounded like he was smiling knowingly; I couldn’t actually see him over the phone) and told me to call him when I changed my mind.

I rolled my eyes (he couldn’t see me, but I did) and said I wouldn’t change my mind. And I meant it. Until I hung up the phone.

Inexplicably, I found myself heading to the bathroom, and examining myself in the mirror. And it was not good. Though ten minutes earlier I had felt quite good about myself, suddenly I could see that I desperately needed work. Botox between the brows. Botox around the mouth. Botox around the eyes. Botox wherever Botox could go.

And not just Botox. Oh no. I needed a full surgical overhaul. Eye lift. Neck lift. Full facial rejuvenation (whatever that actually means). Get my sticky-out left ear finally pinned back. And hey, that’s just what I needed above the neck.

Now, my friend didn’t actually tell me I needed Botox. After all, we haven’t met in person for close to 11 years, so he really has no idea how (fabulously well, or is it hideously poorly?) I’ve aged. But that wasn’t the point. It was the option that had suddenly been presented to me, a tantalising opportunity to change what I had always accepted about myself.

Suddenly, I found myself examining the faces of strangers in the street, checking them for telltale signs of Botoxian Enhancement (which, if you’re interested, consist of ‘having fewer wrinkles than me’). Some of them clearly did (although the ones in school uniforms very possibly could have been teenagers). And it all seemed so unfair. Because now, it didn’t matter if I looked brilliant for my age. All I could aim for was to look brilliant for my age ‘for someone who hasn’t had Botox’. Well great. So that’s why I’ve been slathering sunscreen on all these years.

Still, I’m staying resolute in my decision. It’s not that I think I won’t like Botox. Quite the opposite. I’m frightened of the slippery slope: that it’ll be Botox one day, breast enlargement and cheek implants the next, and before you know it I’ll be starring on Real Housewives of Dover Heights.

And besides, I still look really good for my age.

You wouldn’t believe I’m 65, right?

Would you do Botox? Do you do Botox?