You Can Love Yourself and Still Want Botox

Ladies, we need to knock some shit off.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about vanity.

Not the little table with the mirror where you keep your makeup. The other kind. The word we use when we have decided somebody cares a little too much about how they look.

And I’m starting to think vanity is one of those words we throw around when what we actually mean is:

You care more about that than I think you should.

Because somewhere along the way, female empowerment got a little confused. We went from love yourself exactly as you are—which I am completely on board with—to this strange new version where loving yourself means you must never want to get Botox, lose weight, color your hair, get veneers, contacts, whiten your teeth, edit a photograph, buy expensive skin care, get your lashes done, wear extensions, have your boobs done, get a tattoo, lift something, tuck something, freeze something, fill something, smooth something or otherwise interfere with whatever Mother Nature and gravity have decided to do with you…

Or at least you’re not supposed to admit that you wanted to.

Because if you wanted to?

Well…

You haven’t learned to love yourself enough.

What?

The more I think about this, the more I realize we don’t actually have a problem with people changing their appearance. We have a problem with certain reasons for changing their appearance.

And somehow we’ve created an invisible hierarchy for which reasons count.

What Do You Need an Acceptable Backstory

If you have vision problems, you get glasses, contacts or LASIK because you want to see better. Nobody questions that. But if you wear colored contacts because you just happen to like yourself better with green eyes, somehow we’ve moved into a completely different category.

Botox for chronic migraines? Medical treatment. Botox because you don’t like the lines between your eyebrows? Well, now we need to talk about whether you’ve learned to accept yourself.

Severe acne, rosacea, melasma, facial scarring or a birthmark? Treat it. Laser it. Cover it. We understand. A breast develops differently from the other, or changes because of cancer or surgery? Reconstruction makes sense. A child is born with a cleft lip? Surgery. Crooked teeth are affecting your bite? Braces. A nose issue makes it hard to breathe? Fix it.

Drooping eyelids interfere with your vision? Insurance paperwork may even get involved and everybody nods sympathetically. But let that same woman say, My eyelids make me look tired and I hate them, and suddenly we need to discuss whether she’s emotionally healthy enough to have an opinion about her own face.

Same eyelids. Possibly the same surgeon. Possibly the same damn procedure.

Different explanation.

And the explanation determines whether the rest of us think she’s allowed to want it.

That is fascinating to me.

Why does I need it receive compassion while I want it gets cross-examined?

Why does a woman need a diagnosis, accident, illness, trauma, impairment or sufficiently heartwarming backstory before everybody will kindly issue her a permit to alter the merchandise?

Maybe she just never liked her nose. Maybe she likes herself better with green eyes. Maybe she wants the lines between her eyebrows gone because she does.

Is that really a moral emergency?

Somewhere Between Braces and Botox, We Maybe Lost Jesus

There must be a chart somewhere.

THE OFFICIAL WOMAN’S GUIDE TO ACCEPTABLE SELF-IMPROVEMENT

Moisturizer: responsible.

Sunscreen: excellent.

Makeup: fine, but not too much.

Hair extensions: ok, unless somebody can tell.

Microblading: probably fine.

Botox: suspicious.

Facelift: whoa there, Narcissus.

Neck lift: please submit three references and a psychological evaluation proving you tried to love your neck first.

That’s the absurdity. The line moves depending on who’s looking.

One woman sees gray hair and thinks, God, I love how confidently she’s aging. Another colors hers every four weeks and thinks, God, I love not having gray hair.

Why does one of them have to be more evolved?

Why can’t they both just have hair?

Natural-ish

The whole natural argument cracks me up because what exactly are we calling natural? Unless you’re reading this naked in the woods while making your own soap from berries, you’re probably already making some modifications.

You shower. You style your hair. Maybe you color it, straighten it, curl it or attach somebody else’s hair to it. You pluck your eyebrows, draw them back on, put mascara on your eyelashes, lipstick on your mouth, polish on your nails and earrings through holes somebody intentionally made in your ears. Maybe you have tattoos, a nose ring, a belly-button piercing or something you chose at 19 that has since become an ongoing lesson in decision-making.

Then you put on clothes—not simply because public nudity is frowned upon, but because you chose those clothes. Jeans, boots, a sundress, a baseball cap, a suit, something Western, goth, bohemian, preppy, vintage, or whatever we’re calling the aesthetic where everybody wears beige and owns sixteen cream-colored throw pillows.

We style ourselves.

Human beings present themselves to the world. Appearance can communicate culture, religion, profession, rebellion, belonging, sexuality, artistry, confidence, insecurity or simply the fact that you bought a really cute pair of boots.

Not every decision needs a doctoral thesis behind it.

And yet women are expected to make an effort without appearing to have made too much effort.

Look polished, but don’t be high-maintenance. Take care of yourself, but don’t be vain. Age beautifully, but don’t appear to be trying not to age. Be natural, but look amazing.

So are we supposed to wake up looking 25 at 40 through a strict regimen of gratitude and drinking enough water?

Good luck with that.

And Evidently There’s an HOA for Faces

There are, obviously, social rules around appearance. Workplaces have dress codes. Schools have policies. Restaurants require shirts and shoes, which feels reasonable considering I’m trying to eat lunch.

There is such a thing as decorum.

But decorum is not the same thing as uniformity.

You can follow a dress code and still be yourself. You can wear the required black pants and have pink hair. You can put on a blazer over tattoos. You can wear no makeup or enough eyeliner to communicate with satellites.

Individual expression doesn’t stop being individual expression because somebody else wouldn’t choose it.

That distinction matters, because there is a huge difference between:

I personally wouldn’t do that       (((and)))         She shouldn’t do that.

The first sentence describes you. The second sentence attempts to govern her.

You don’t like the way fillers look? Fine. I don’t get fillers.

You shouldn’t edit photographs? Wonderful. Don’t edit yours.

Someone else doesn’t color their gray hair? Greeaaat – not about you.

None of those preferences magically become evidence for what every other woman should do with her own face.

Your preference is not a referendum.

A Compliment Stops Being a Compliment When It Comes With Instructions

This is where judgment gets sneaky because sometimes it shows up wearing a cardigan.

You’re already beautiful.

You don’t need Botox.

You looked better before.

Why can’t you just age gracefully?

A judgment doesn’t stop being judgment because you said it softly and put you’re beautiful in front of it.

You looked beautiful before.

Thank you. Full stop. That’s a compliment.

(I think) You looked beautiful before, so you didn’t need to <insert disclaimer here>.

Whole different sentence…

And yes, you’re right: I don’t need Botox. I also don’t need earrings, perfume, highlights, a manicure, mascara, cute boots—although I’m willing to fight somebody over that one—or whatever ridiculously expensive serum I’m currently convinced was harvested from the tears of a baby angel and it’s going to restore my face to 1995.

I technically don’t need much beyond food, water, shelter and enough oxygen to continue listening to everybody else’s unsolicited opinions.

Maybe I want it.

Why did want become such a dirty word?

Fat Must Leave Through a Noble Exit

Weight loss is where this became especially personal for me.

I have spent decades trying to solve problem. Jenny Craig. Weight Watchers. Contrave. Fen-phen. Keto. Macros. Intermittent fasting. Nutrisystem. SlimFast. Cleanses. Cabbage soup. Grapefruit diets. Calorie counting. Gym memberships. Workout equipment that eventually became very expensive laundry racks.

I’ve tried plans where you eat certain foods on certain days and plans where the secret to lifelong health was simply being hungry and pissed off.

So no, I did not wake up one Tuesday, discover GLP-1 medication and think:

FINALLY. CHEATING.

I’ve been working on this for decades.

And yet there is this bizarre moral hierarchy around weight loss too. Diet and exercise are considered virtuous. Medication gets questions. Surgery depends on who’s asking. Sounds like some people think there is a right way and a wrong way to lose fat, and everybody has an opinion about whether you earned it properly.

I was medically considered morbidly obese and have lost over 80 pounds in the last four years. My health improved tremendously. I had high blood pressure, high cholesterol and prediabetic A1C numbers. Now I’m active, quit drinking, eat mostly natural foods, average 15,000 steps a day, and added strength training despite the unfortunate fact that I continue to hate gyms.

But here’s the thing: I shouldn’t have to hand over my medical records to justify wanting to lose weight.

The minute I start listing my blood pressure, cholesterol and A1C to prove that my reasons were acceptable, I’ve walked directly into the trap I’m writing about.

Because what if another woman simply wants to feel better in her clothes? What if her doctor thinks medication is the best approach for her? What if she wants to look different?

Why should she have to prove that she was unhealthy enough, unhappy enough or struggled long enough before everybody agrees she had an acceptable reason to change her body?

I’m not interested in deciding whether another woman suffered enough to deserve to want to wear smaller pants.

Then Everybody Has Opinions About the Leftovers

Losing weight taught me something else too.

First everybody has opinions about your weight. Then you lose it, and somehow they have even more opinions.

And after losing all this weight, contrary to what the internet would have you believe, skin does not necessarily receive the memo and magically shrink-wrap itself around the body of a 24-year-old Pilates instructor.

Your face changes. Your neck changes. Your arms, stomach and butt change.

Meanwhile, gravity continues to remain an asshole.

I was recently told, in so many words, that perhaps I should just lean into where my body is going.

Respectfully…no.

Why does appreciating what my body has accomplished require me to become emotionally attached to every physical side effect of the accomplishment?

I can be proud of losing the weight and dislike loose skin. I can be grateful for my health and still not love my neck from every angle. I can think I look beautiful and hate the way I look in a photograph.

Those ideas are not fighting.

They can sit at the same table.

Call the Police, I Edited My Chin

Photographs are another place where we’ve become strangely moralistic.

Have you met cameras? Cameras are rude. Lighting is rude. Angles are rude.

You can look fantastic in real life and somebody catches you mid-word from four inches below your face and suddenly you have seven chins, one eye and the posture of a garden gnome.

If I put concealer under my eyes before the picture, nobody cares. If I remove the same dark circle afterward, suddenly we’re discussing authenticity.

If I contour my nose before the shutter clicks, beauty routine.

If I soften/sharpen a shadow later, deception.

Why?

Obviously image manipulation matters in journalism, evidence and advertising claims where truth itself is being represented.

My Christmas picture is not the Zapruder film.

Sometimes I just don’t want the zit.

Self-Expression Doesn’t Need Your Approval

The same principle gets bigger when you think about identity and self-expression.

People use appearance to make the outside feel more like the inside.

That can be a woman getting a dramatic haircut after a divorce, a teenager dyeing her hair purple, a man finally growing the beard he always wanted, a woman getting her first tattoo at 62, or someone transitioning and finding real joy in finally seeing a reflection that feels more like who they know themselves to be.

Different stakes, obviously. Same basic human impulse: This feels more like me.

You do not have to understand somebody’s choice in order for the choice to belong to them. I AM GOING TO GO AHEAD and REPEAT THIS-> You do not have to understand somebody’s choice in order for the choice to belong to them!

And yes, people can take things too far. Cosmetic procedures can become compulsive. Body dysmorphia is real. Trusted people sometimes need to ask those difficult questions of people.

But the existence of an extreme doesn’t make every ordinary beauty choice evidence of my pathology.

People can exercise compulsively too. That doesn’t mean your Zoomba class is a cry for help.

Concern has a place but judgment is not the same thing as concern.

Already Worthy. Still Allowed to Tinker.

Please take the time to read Loveable by Kelly Flanagan! What stayed with me most was the idea that our worth isn’t something we finally earn by becoming prettier, thinner, younger-looking or more acceptable.

I believe that completely.

I don’t become more worthy because I lost weight, and I don’t become less worthy if I gain it. Wrinkles, loose skin, gray hair, scars, Botox and plastic surgery don’t change the fundamental worth of the person underneath any of it.

But I think we’ve taken this beautiful idea that you are already worthy and somehow turned it into:

Therefore you shouldn’t want to change anything.

Those are not the same thing.

Self-love is not a vow of non-intervention.

I can love my house and paint the kitchen. I can love my hair and color it. I can love my body and strengthen it. I can love my face and get Botox.

Changing something doesn’t automatically mean I hated it before.

And even if I did hate something?

I don’t think that’s a felony either.

Let Them. Then Let Me.

I am currently reading Mel Robbins’ The Let Them Theory and it really fits here in a way I hadn’t thought about at first.

We usually think of Let Them as what you say when somebody leaves you out, misunderstands you, judges you or does something you don’t like.  But it works in the other direction too.

Another woman makes a beauty choice you wouldn’t make? Let her.

Not because every choice is automatically wise, healthy or beautiful. Not because concern never has a place. But because the fact that you wouldn’t choose it does not make her choice a personal affront to you.

And maybe the better question is why her choice bothers YOU so much.

Sometimes the answer may be concern. Sometimes it may be insecurity, jealousy, projection, fear, or simply the discomfort of watching somebody give herself permission to do something you’ve denied yourself (or at least claim to).

That’s yours to examine. Not hers to carry.

And then comes the part I like even better. Let me.

Let me decide what feels good in my body. Let me decide how I want to present myself. Let me choose which parts of aging I embrace and which parts I negotiate with aggressively. Let them think it’s vain.

And then watch me decide whether I care or not.

The Question Was Never Botox

So no, I don’t actually think this is an article about Botox anymore. Botox is just where the conversation walked in.

The real question is why we are so comfortable with people changing themselves only when we approve of the reason.

Why is correction compassionate but enhancement vain? Why is a wig understandable when illness caused the hair loss but extensions questionable when a woman simply thinks her hair is too thin? Why does somebody need to prove sufficient emotional hardship before she’s allowed to say:

I wanted this.

Maybe wanting it is enough.

Maybe enjoying how you look is enough.

Maybe there doesn’t have to be a tragic backstory, a diagnosis or a feminist thesis defense.

Maybe you can look in the mirror and think, I’d like to change that, and still love the person doing the looking.

Because loving yourself doesn’t mean becoming so evolved that you never want anything about yourself to change.

It means your worth no longer depends on whether you change it.

I don’t have to fix my face to deserve love. And I don’t have to leave my face untouched to prove I already love myself. Those ideas were never enemies.

We just got so busy telling women how they should feel about themselves that we somehow turned self-love into one more standard they can fail. So if you love every wrinkle exactly as it is, wonderful. If you want Botox, that’s your business too. And if somebody else has a problem with it?

Let them.

Then…

let you.

Maybe the most loving thing we can finally give women isn’t another set of instructions about how they’re supposed to feel about their bodies.

Maybe it’s just permission to stop asking permission.