WordSmith: Under the influence of vanity
Lip fillers is not something you expect 40-something men to be writing about. Gerard Smith's latest WordSmith column is a laugh a minute...
Monday morning, I was watching Ireland AM while having coffee. The presenters were interviewing two social media influencers, both strikingly beautiful young women. Tommy Bowe asked if they were pressured to look a certain way by the cosmetic industry or individuals? Both nodded yes, while one said, “I put up a TikTok yesterday and someone said I would benefit from lip-filler.”
Dear reader, long before TikTok, the same thing was said to me. I wondered if I should be lippy and confess my cosmetic-calamity; for it’s not something you’d expect to read from a male columnist in his middle-years. But, given those years have mercifully stripped me of vanity, I shall tell all.
It was the beginning of the Botox-boom; the media and ad-industry were telling us the elixir of youth was delivered by needle. At the time, I was an influencer of sorts. As creative director of a London ad-agency, it was my job to create messaging-communications that would influence cosmetic-practitioners to use our client’s range of products on their customers. Dermal-Filler was relatively new to the market, but competition was gathering pace and I had to ensure our brand remained first and foremost in the minds of practitioners and consumers alike.
And, I did that – sales soared. During a meeting to discuss further strategies, our client suggested I try a little filler. I was taken aback, I didn’t think I needed it and said so. She leant back to assess my face, “A smidgen in your nasolabial-folds will freshen you up.” She leant forward and continued, “Besides, you need the full customer experience to best communicate it. And, we can use your before and after shots.”
Everybody nodded in agreement. Did I feel pressured? No – I was vainly intrigued.
The following day a taxi picked me up and took me to have my nasolabial-folds filled (they’re the creases that run either side of your nose to the sides of your mouth). That morning I’d studied my face and couldn’t see any significant nasolabial-folding; but I went along with it, anyway. After all, this was work. The taxi dropped me outside the clinic in Harley Street – yep, my naso-fold-filling would be carried out by the cream of London’s cosmetic crop.
With my before pictures completed, I was taken into the procedural room. My nerves kicked in, the stark sterility of the clinical room reminded me I was about to have stuff injected into my face that didn’t need to be; an unnecessary invasive procedure. But still, I lay on the gurney. When the practitioner’s face loomed over mine, I closed my eyes.
That’s when she said, “You know Gerard, you could benefit from lip-filler.” My immediate response was, “I don’t want to look like a duck!” She reassured me, “You won’t, a little volume in your lips will rejuvenate your look.” I gave her the go-ahead.
The needle punctured my upper lip, and through the searing pain I remembered – I was due in Cavan the following week for the Blessing of The Graves!
Afterwards, she handed me a mirror with a triumphant, “Voila.” I was relieved to see my lips looked alright, kind of. Handing her back the mirror she said, “You may experience some swelling, that’s normal.” In the return cab, my lips began to tingle.
Strolling through Covent Garden, my lips itched. It was lunch time and I saw a colleague approaching. He stopped in front of me: flinched, then creased-up with laughter. Eventually he managed to ask, “What the f**k have you done?” I put a hand over my increasingly itchy lips, “Do I look like a duck?” He shook his head, “No mate – you look like Jackie Stallone!”
That year, Sylvester’s mother was shaking up Celebrity Big Brother. And, her cosmetically altered looks were the subject of much derision. I ran to a pub, into the toilet, and in front of the mirror. Beads of regret-filled sweat ran down my sorry face – I looked like Stallone’s mammy.
I told myself, ‘They’ll be okay when the swelling goes down.’ The following day – I looked like Jackie Stallone.
The following week – I still looked like Jackie Stallone. I called home, “I won’t make the Blessing of The Graves, erm… something’s come up at work!” Which was the truth, of sorts.
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