On Tuesday, I had upper blepharoplasty.
For anyone who doesn't spend their evenings Googling things they hadn't previously known existed, that's surgery to remove excess skin from the upper eyelids.
Yes. Plastic surgery.
And before anyone starts imagining I've suddenly developed a burning desire to look like a 23-year-old influencer who drinks green juice and refers to herself as a "content creator", that wasn't why I had it done.
The skin above my right eyelid had gradually started drooping onto my eyelid. And it was driving me absolutely mad. Not aesthetically. Physically.
By the evening, it was irritating me so much that I'd find myself sitting there holding the skin up with my finger just to get a bit of relief. Which is not something you should have to do while watching television. Or anything else, for that matter.
So I had the surgery. And here I am on Day 2.
Bruised. Swollen. Slightly alarmed by my own reflection. Did I expect this level of bruising and discomfort? No.
I'm wearing a headband because apparently, when you've just had surgery on your face, you discover very quickly that hair is suddenly the last thing you want touching you.
So far, so straightforward. Except, of course, it isn't. Because having plastic surgery—even when you haven't had it for cosmetic reasons—makes you think about plastic surgery. And ageing. And women. And whether we've all collectively lost the bloody run of ourselves.
Because everywhere you look, somebody is having something done
A little Botox. A bit of filler. A tweak. A lift. A "refresh". Which is an interesting word when you think about it. You refresh a browser. You refresh a gin and tonic. Apparently, you can now refresh your face.
And look, I'm not judging. Honestly, I'm not. I'm currently sitting here with stitches in my eyelids. I am in absolutely no position to climb onto a moral high horse. But I do wonder sometimes when we all decided that looking older was something that needed to be corrected.
Because, inconveniently, we are getting older. All of us. That's how this works. And yet women, in particular, seem to have been handed this extraordinary challenge: please continue ageing, but don't look like you're ageing. It's a bit like being asked to lose weight without becoming any lighter.
The strange thing is, I didn't do this to look younger
I genuinely didn't. The skin was irritating my eye. It was physically uncomfortable. I wanted it sorted. But I'm not going to pretend I haven't looked in the mirror since and thought about what I'll look like when the bruising goes down. Of course I have. I'm human. And therein lies the problem, doesn't it?
You can have surgery for a completely practical reason and still be pleased if you look a bit more rested afterwards. Does that make you vain? Or does it just make you someone who has spent the last almost fifty years living in a world that has repeatedly suggested women should look their best at all times?
Preferably effortlessly. Preferably without admitting how much effort it takes.
We're allowed to care how we look
This is the bit I struggle with. There is an enormous pressure on women to look young. But there's also a slightly patronising pressure to pretend we don't care. You're supposed to be above it all. Age gracefully. Don't be vain. Embrace your wrinkles. But also, perhaps, don't have too many of them. It's exhausting.
Maybe that's why so many of us are getting things done. Not because we're all desperately trying to become somebody else. Maybe we're just trying to negotiate a world that keeps changing the rules. And before anyone thinks I'm blaming social media for everything, I don't think that's entirely fair either.
Social media didn't invent vanity. Women were worrying about how they looked long before Instagram came along and gave us ring lights. But I do think we've become increasingly used to seeing faces that have been adjusted.
Filtered. Filled. Lifted. Smoothed. Tweaked.
And then presented to us as though this is simply what a normal 52-year-old looks like after drinking enough water.
And that is where I start wondering whether we're all mad
Not for having surgery. Not for having Botox. Not for doing whatever makes you feel comfortable in your own skin. But perhaps for pretending that there isn't something slightly strange about a society where women are expected to fight so hard against looking like themselves. I like my face. It's been my face for quite some time now. I'm not interested in getting rid of my wrinkles. They've earned their place. I'm also not interested in pretending that the loose skin hanging over my eye wasn't annoying the life out of me. Both things can be true. You can accept ageing and still fix something that's bothering you. You can have surgery and still think the pressure on women to look younger is bonkers. You can like your wrinkles and wear mascara. You can refuse Botox and still occasionally wonder if everyone else knows something you don't.
And you can absolutely have plastic surgery without wanting to become a different person.
So, are we all mad?
Possibly. A little bit. But perhaps the bigger madness is pretending there is one correct way for women to grow older. Some women will have surgery. Some won't. Some will dye their hair. Some will let it go grey. Some will have Botox. Some will run screaming from the very suggestion. The rest of us will probably change our minds ten or fifteen times. And that's fine too.
As for me, I'm currently on Day 2 of my upper blepharoplasty. I look like I've gone twelve rounds with someone considerably bigger than me. I am very glad I had it done. Ask me again in a few weeks when the bruising has gone down. I may have developed a completely different set of problems.
Because possibly, once I can see my eyelids again properly, I'll have to find something else to complain about.
One thing I'd love to know...
Have you had anything done?
Would you?
Or do you think we've all completely lost the run of ourselves?
No judgement.
Well.
Very little.
Tell me in the comments.
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