A few days later I noticed a difference: the frown line between my eyebrows had disappeared! I was hooked. Now millions of other American women can be, too; the Food and Drug Administration recently approved the toxin for temporary wrinkle removal. Mind you, most women in my part of the country couldn’t care less if Botox had FDA approval or not. Statistics show that more than 1.6 million cosmetic Botox procedures were performed in the United States last year, and I’ll bet that most of those were in Los Angeles. Still, millions of women in America’s heartland–not to mention the rest of the world–are unfamiliar with the wonders of a little shot of poison in the face.
Not me. Increasingly comfortable with the procedure, I decide to try a “Brows and Botox” event at the trendy Valerie Beverly Hills cosmetics salon. I arrive fashionably late and leave my car with the parking valet. Inside, I find dozens of denim- and Prada-clad women nibbling finger sandwiches and sipping Perrier. Alcohol is a no-no; it’s hard to give informed consent to a medical procedure if you’re tipsy.
First salon owner Valerie Sarnelle waxes each woman’s eyebrows into McDonald’s arches. Then Dr. Jessica Wu, a Harvard Medical School-trained cosmetic dermatologist, discreetly shoots up the women with Botox as they sit in a makeup artist’s chair. The scene is a little jarring, like finding a Clinique counter in a methadone clinic.
Like me, most of the women have been Botoxed before but have come to sample the doctor’s “technique.’’ The buzz is that Wu’s gentle touch has earned her a celebrity following. She won’t give names, but discloses that before this year’s Oscars, she made house calls to three female presenters to give them Botox shots in their armpits. “It eliminates perspiration,” says Wu.
After Sarnelle shapes my eyebrows and graces me with fake mink eyelashes, I am ready for Wu. I worry for an instant that the good doctor might deny me my fix. After all, my last Botox shot is still working. But Wu takes one look at me and determines that I am a prime candidate. “Around the eyes,” she proclaims. Wu and her two medical assistants set up tidy rows of gauze, Q-Tips, gloves and a biohazard-disposal pail. As an assistant holds an ice-filled cloth to my face, I sign a consent form. The doctor opens up two small vials, then hovers over me, needle in hand. “Smile. Relax. Smile. Relax,’’ she instructs, trying to determine the exact latitude of my crow’s feet. Two or three faint pinches on each side of my eyes, and I’m done. That’s it–no stinging, no soreness. Days later I’m not aware of any new sensations–or losing any old ones.
The other women at the event gather around me for a look. “You know, you should catch the corners of your mouth before they start to droop too much more,’’ one suggests helpfully. Joleen Rizzo, 39, an Emmy Award-winning makeup artist, frets about living in a town obsessed with looks and age. “Our standards are so much higher here,” she says. “I’m sure if I lived on some farm in Iowa, I couldn’t care less about Botox.”
By the end of the afternoon, the Brows and Botox event evolves into one big support group. I feel oddly close to these women I barely know, as if we have shared some important rite of passage together and emerged better–or at least better-looking–for it. Collectively, we encourage Abbe Hausner, 45, to take the Botox plunge, but she remains wary. “I think for my first time, I’d rather do it in private,’’ she says.
Not me. From now on, I’m Botoxing in public.
