I started doing filler and botox when I was 27-years-old. I’d just gotten a new contract with MTV HD and my agent was shitting herself that the content was going to be, well, VERY HD. My skin has always been various degrees of terrible so off I trotted to her “top ten best in the world” botox doctor in Kensington, safe in the knowledge that if he didn’t think I needed anything I wouldn’t have to do it.
“I’ll be fine” I thought “I don’t need fucking Botox”.
As I sat in the fancy consultation room, that looked all weirdly futuristic and space age, I started to panic a bit. I imagined all those terrible pictures you see of frozen over-inflated celebrity faces and wondered if I was doing the wrong thing. What if he completely fucked up my face!?
The doctor looked me up and down. I was sweating. “Who recommended you?”
“Erm… my agent. She’s one of your clients?”
“Is she? I don’t know her. Go sit over there.” He gestured to a treatment table that might as well have been a morgue slab. I gingerly perched on the edge.
“How old are you?” He asked.
“27.” I mumbled.
“Hmm.” He lifted my chin to take a good look at my face. “What do you do?”
As quickly as I could say “I’m a TV presenter” he had scribbled all over my face with some kind of magic marker. “You need this, this, and this. By the way your skin is terrible, you need to see our beauty therapist.”