Don’t tell anyone, but I had my lips done. Nothing ultra, nothing bonko. Just a touch of filler along the lip line, a little more to intensify the depth and emphasis of my cupid’s bow… It wasn’t something I’d been thinking about for a while, I’ll be honest. I’d booked into see Dr Sarah Tonks, a Chelsea-based aesthetician I first encountered about 18 months ago after someone I trust in such matters told me she was not only incredibly good, but also, funny (which always makes me value a person’s services more), on the off-chance Dr T could think of something clever to do with my face, which she usually can. Over previous visits, she’d proved creative and subtle with the tweaking; she’d been the first person I’d ever allowed to use filler on me at all, and: guess what? It’s hard not to love having five years knock off ya in one sitting. She’d given me Botox too, which I also slightly love; the only downer I’ve clocked with that so far, is that somewhat reduced forehead mobility makes me a less competent contender in the After Eight game (where you balance an After Eight on your forehead, then wiggle it down your face, and into your mouth).
So I go to see her – six months or so after my last visit – present my face, ask what she thinks.
She contemplates it silently for a few seconds, then:
'How about a little lip?' she asks.
'Oooh, yeah, let’s!' I say, all giddy. I trust Sarah Tonks. She understands that the morality of her business can be somewhat sketchy, she talks and thinks about the implications of her work critically, she’s got a streak of compassion a mile-wide running through her… And she definitely just is very good.
She sits me down on her couch, cues me up: “One, two, three, little scratch,” she says, then begins to inject my lip line with dermal fillers. When she’s completed each section, she pinches it into shape. Does it hurt? A bit, of course. I’m hard core with pain, and also incredibly good at deep breathing (really, I am. Inhaling and exhaling efficiently and at length are among my top unmarketable skills), but this woman is sticking needles into my face, so… Still. It’s definitely not excruciating, and it’s over in less than five minutes. At which point, Sarah hands me a mirror. I fall instantly and revoltingly in love with my tweaked appearance. Oh, but my lips are subtle! And, oh, they are good! I feel as if they lift the whole of my lower face somehow: just a bit, just enough.
In the wider world, hardly anyone notices, which I take as further testimony to the subtlety. The two who do, pause to contemplate before offering comment. “Yeah. I like it,” they both say; then: “Should I get it?”. I estimate that, on learning her friend has been tweakmented, the average woman waits 3.7 seconds before beginning to wonder if they should do it too.
Cost: £450
Would I pay for it with my own money?
Oh, for sure! As things stand, I look less like I’ve had my lips done, more like something lovely and gentle and not quite definable has happened to my face overall, and that is the lip filler dream. (NB I hardly need tell you that awful things have been done to women’s faces in the name of fuller lips; so for heaven’s sake, find a good doc. Find a Tonks.)