This weekend I found myself sitting in a med spa, watching my 29-year-old sister get Botox for the first time with Wood’s words ringing in my ears. The med spa was hosting one of their “tox parties,” with free consultations and Botox for just $10 per unit. While my sister checked in, I sat on the fuzzy white sofa, flipping through the glossy pamphlets displayed on the oblong coffee table. A mother with glass-smooth skin browsed shelves full of clinical-looking skin-care products in minimalist packaging as her two young daughters nibbled on green and white vial-shaped cookies. They’d picked them up on the second floor, where the actual party was happening—complete with delicate flash tattoos, ear piercings, a neon sign nestled in a wall of artificial ivy that declared, “It’s GLOW Time.”
I’d gone in thinking I’d go for it myself, or at least consider a consultation. I’d been interested in injectables for a while, after all. At first, I saw Botox as a possible solution to my recurring migraines, but I eventually became curious about what it could do for me aesthetically. I’d watch self-described injectors on TikTok talk about the benefits of “facial balancing” and bookmark before and after posts on Instagram. I wouldn’t call it pressure, exactly, but the idea that Botox is just maintenance, like retinol or hair masks or pilates, has been slowly settling into my brain, especially now that I’m in my 30s.
But as I watched my sister lean back in the chair, making small talk with the nurse injector about her aesthetic goals, I felt an unexpected shift. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I even wanted a consultation, let alone anything injected into my face.
It wasn’t the Botox itself that made me hesitate, or the needles or the bright light or the Harry Styles song blaring inside the office. It was the idea of possibly losing something. If I were to get Botox every three to four months as my sister’s med spa recommended, I might eventually lose some of the little expressions that make me who I am: the way my brows furrow when I’m reading, the way part of my lip tends to pull upwards in photos, even when I think I’m being pouty and mysterious.
My sister left the appointment thrilled with her results. I left happily without having gone near a needle. Were it not for what Wood said on that podcast, things might not have shaken out this way.