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I always said I wanted to age gracefully...
But now that I’m here, I’m reconsidering.
Turns out, the human body doesn’t age in a steady, dignified march. It lurches—especially around ages 44 and 60, when the process hits the gas.
I’ve always felt young for my age, but this past year I hit what can only be described as an “age spurt.” The evidence is right there—on my face and neck.
Which is why I’ve begun the journey of seeking a plastic surgeon—someone who can help the lower half of my resting bitch face better match the less saggy ingénue I still feel like on the inside.
I had my first consultation last week. It did not go well.
And that was entirely my fault. I was wildly unprepared—even though I was the one who booked the damn thing.
A friend had recommended a plastic surgeon, and in a moment of reckless optimism (and zero research), I scheduled an appointment.
The waiting room was all soft lighting, abstract art, and women who looked like they floated in on a collagen-scented cloud.
The doctor entered, all smiles and charm, shook my hand—and then immediately reached for his oversized iPad. Because nothing says “welcome” like a high-res image of your unfiltered pores.
He snapped a few photos of my unsuspecting face, then began swiping and zooming with surgical precision. With his nurse and a wide-eyed associate looking on, he began circling and diagramming my face like a football coach plotting a Hail Mary.
“There’s some heaviness here,” he said, pointing to my jowls. “A little droop there,” gesturing toward my neck. “And this—” he tapped the corner of my mortified mouth, “—we can most likely improve, but, it's going to take more than a facelift."
He stopped; then smiled, "Any questions?”
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