SOCIAL
To Botox or Not to Botox?
When wrinkles become an act of revolution
I’ve just been asked by a man walking by, in the street, why I look so… well, he seemed unsure of the look and he hesitated so I answered for him… “Because the world is a fucking mess. Who wouldn’t be?”
He didn’t reply and then tried to bum a sip of my Coke Zero off me, as some kind of comeback. I said no because COVID, but actually because I dislike takers and thought this was cheeky of him.
Maybe it wasn’t cheeky of him. Sharing is caring. But I’m somewhat jaded now and I don’t share as easily as I once did.
There was a time, not so long ago, I would have put my own troubles aside and given him the whole can.
I frown. A lot. It’s actually my natural expression, mostly.
My WTF lines, I used to call them. Botox hid them well. Yes, I used it. They were very there and very visible. Always. A look acquired by osmosis from my late father. who had them too. It was this that made me slightly afraid of him, perhaps.
Still, I grew up with his expression on my face as well as a lot of his lessons about life, and a decent way to walk in the world, in my head.
His “Two Cents Theory” has been the way I’ve approached life myself, ever since he shared it with me one day at a corner cafe. And yes, I know the difference between a theory and a hypothesis, now.
And it is a theory. If not a fact.
I began to use Botox to hide the permanent frown between my eyebrows, when it began to become a set of permanent lines in my late thirties.
After I had my son and we were both in recovery for trauma, and my resultant addiction, I continued to use it because he is a watchful child.
An “Adult Child,” they call it.
The WTF lines would make him nervous too. I noticed how much more comfortable he was when I had been cosmetically frozen and looked serene. Even though my life was anything but serene, his emotional regulation depended almost entirely on him believing I was.
This is how multi-generational trauma works and this is how we fuck our kids up, unintentionally, if we have not healed ourselves. By osmosis.
Your face cannot lie to a child.
Neither can your body language, tone of voice or nervous system.
I’ve not been able to afford my, previously privileged, lifestyle for over two years now. Before you think I’m a loser or a soccer mom, let me share that I was once pulling in between R24-R32k a month to cover household expenses, as a single mom with two kids.
Necessity breeds a web-development business
Two young kids; two school runs; two sets of school admin and after kids’ socializing; the running and maintenance of a large three-bedroom home and the admin of keeping fathers informed of school dates, birthday parties, family responsibilities, and whatever events.
I baked homemade chocolate-chip cookies one night, after a full day’s work while I was 8 months pregnant, for an entire twenty-eight strong school class.
And all of the teachers.
Eighty odd hand-made cookies, requested by my daughter after dinner, on the night before her birthday day at school.
I had planned to buy Lollipops or Fizzers.
I made the cookies, of course, and I felt as though I was a successful “woman” for pulling it off when I finished at around 1 am.
Any involved parent will understand the amount of attention required to be vaguely present for a child.
I did my best but often failed miserably.
Life was a constant juggle between feeling I was on top of it all, and feeling as though I was dropping the ball and never getting to where I should be.
Neither enough time for the children nor enough time to get to where my business would afford me more precious time with them.
I was the single, working parent for 21 /22 days out of a month for the three-year-old, and for 24/25 days a month for the young teen.
I brought in this R24-R32k salary via an online web development company I had started, almost accidentally, with no official training in web development.
I brought in this salary, within just over two years of the first website client I managed to land.
I learned web development on the fly, via online tutorials and questions/answers posted on support threads, due to financial necessity alone.
Someone had asked if I could make a website.
I had no idea how to, but I said yes… because I needed the money.
I managed to pull this off with an interest in tech and some really hard sweat.
There were many lost evenings and weekends with my kids.
It hardly seems worth it now.
Progress
It was very satisfying today, to be asked what was wrong by a man in the street and, instead of the predictable line that generally follows (give us a smile, darlin’), have him actually see my face in truth and halt mid-sentence.
I mean, he clearly had the same intentions and could easily have finished off with the age-old and somewhat exasperating question and request.
But he did not.
He saw my face, as I turned to look at him, in full. And he saw my body language, I guess. He faltered when he saw “me.” He stumbled over his words and he was at a loss at what to say from there.
How to describe it
It’s not the face of a victim. Even though, technically, I suppose it is.
It’s not a sad face, even though it has grieved intensely over the last three years.
It’s actually a pretty composed, definitely frustrated, somewhat worn but don’t even fuckin’ try your shit with me, mature, knowledgeable, and pretty serene face.
It’s a face that has seen things and experienced some Real Life.
It’s very much a WTF face and it has every right to be here, considering the shit it’s been exposed to over the last bit.
I have earned this face.
And, now, I’m thinking of keeping it.
It will probably not get me many dates.
It may not even get me laid anymore.
I may, in fact, be alone for some time.
Nor will it get me pretty things.
(it was never used for this anyway)
In fact, it may only get me permanently single, in a society in which a woman’s worth is largely valued by her appearance alone.
A target
In fact, looking like a girly girl (when I feel like dressing like one) has only ever brought me grief in this god-forsaken country.
I was pretty hot once upon a time (although I never saw it then, in truth) and I looked kind of angelic and innocent. I was though.
I was a fucking naive li’l lamb.
It sucks being a woman in South Africa.
Not only due to the violence we endure as a man’s simple right, and the ongoing entitlement we seem to think is totally normal “boys just being boys”…
It’s also the stigma of being a woman.
Untrustworthy. Dishonest. Dramatic. Emotionally unstable. Crazy. Greedy. Bitter.
In fact, “the cautionary rule,” added to the court role in South Africa stating that victims of rape were not to be trusted, because women lie, has only recently been removed from our legal system.
Yes. This was actually written in, to advise magistrates on how nutty and dishonest gals are. And to not trust our testimony off the bat.
The legacy of this horrific assumption is still prevalent in both our society and the legal system in my country.
My recent education
If you aren’t educated about gender bias - if you reside in the body of a woman and you think that there is any kind of equality in South Africa — then I do (seriously) hope you never get into trouble and need help from “your people” or the government systems (or even supposedly highly trained and, not supposedly very expensive, private professionals) that are meant to be there to protect you.
You are in for an awakening that is both fucking shocking and traumatic.
And no. I’m not being a drama queen, exaggerating, or lying. Nor am I a bitter ex, or emotionally or mentally unstable…
because I am a woman.
It isn’t just me who has experienced this. Far from it.
On my journey, I heard enough stories from other humans (yes, this happens to men too, and I would love to hear how gender bias affects them) who have been brutalised by malignant, dishonest people and again by the system when they asked for help.
Enough to enable me to stop taking the situation so fucking personally, and to begin to really start to recover and gain some ground.
Enough ground to have a case opened in our Department of Social Development, who is also probably having some trouble with their WTF lines at this point.
Walking the walk
But the question I’ve been pondering recently is…
do I take the same approach as I did with my then three-year-old and hide the evidence of the learning?
My son is almost eleven years old now and he is no longer afraid of my WTF lines.
I took the time to explain where they came from. I told him about the man he never had the opportunity to get to know. His grandfather.
I told my son about how my dad would tease me just for fun and I shared, of course, his “Two Cents Theory.”
And my son smiled.
My son and I talk now.
We avoid miscommunication and assumptions. We validate feelings. We share openly. And we are healing. A lot.
There is no need to hide truth from him anymore.
He has lost his fear of truth.
And life.
Because I have lost my fear of truth. And life.
“You look like you’ve been in battle,” he said.
I laughed delightedly. “Oh, my child,” I thought to myself. “If only you knew.”
From the mouths of babes
I asked my son if I should get the Botox and explained what it was.
He frowned (no surprise there), with some horror, and said a firm no.
He isn’t fucked up enough, yet, to consider injecting poison into your body to be any kind of normal.
I guess I should set a good example before he thinks it is.
We can’t talk about values, principles, ideals, core beliefs, and really necessary change and not walk these ourselves.
Our children learn from what we do, not from what we say.
I guess that answers my question…
I now offer guidance and coaching for people in similar situations. Please feel free to drop a private note, to get in touch with me, if you need assistance.
This situation would have been different if I’d been adequately educated and prepared.
Recovery is possible.
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Find me on Ko-fi for all of my busy-ness in one place, for free stuff, and to send Botox if you’re feeling generous (I’ll exchange it for time to create more content)
