Today, in my world, it means Botox , filler, polynucleotides, Profhilo, micro-needling and In an online world where women - and men - are under unprecedented pressure to look good, ageless celebrities and influencers are fuelling the myth that they, somehow, are better than the rest of us by virtue of a snatched jawline.
They're not. In most cases, they've spent tens of thousands of pounds to look this way, but won't come clean for fear of eroding the facade, or tarnishing the brand. And, in my book, that's not fair. Indeed, two stars semi-outlined above pre-recorded Instagram posts to upload whilst they were recovering from surgery. To paraphrase Baz Luhrmann, if I could offer you one bit of advice: wear sunscreen. And in selfies yes I'm still a millennial , my neck was crepey and wrinkled.
In a photo taken days before my op, I zoomed in was genuinely devastated to see the neck of an octogenarian staring back at me. I no longer got attention in bars which, as superficial and pathetic as it sounds, I missed. That old adage rattled out by middle aged women started to apply: I felt invisible.
But not so invisible that at Waterloo station, a salesman from Scottish Widows didn't veritably leg over and thrusting some forms in my hand. Evidently I was looking of pensionable age. The next day, I booked in with Mr Paul Tulley. Surgeon to the rich, famous and very successful, I contacted him after seeing his work on Instagram. It looked subtle and understated; not a bride of Wildenstein in sight, God bless her cosmetic soul.
My first consultation took place last May in his Harley Street clinic, where I enquired about a mini-facelift - a procedure requiring just a couple of stitches, and minimal downtime. He stood me in front of his full-length mirror, and gently pulled up the skin on my sagging visage, explaining I'd lost around two centimetres of laxity.
