The first thing that hits you about the Richmond Medispa is the smooth complexions of the staff. The women are, without exception, gorgeous. There’s a lot of blonde hair. I’m ushered into a room with a lovely Scot called Tess, where we realise we have a shared love of Ibiza (her boyfriend has a villa in Las Salinas… if only!). She’s a great advert for the clinic – I was genuinely surprised when she said she was in her mid-fifties; I’m in my late forties and assumed she was younger than me. We chat about holistic stuff – I’m not convinced, but I do like her sincerity – and she tells me that the doctor who will be injecting poison into me is an artist, who looks at the face properly, and works out how to balance it aesthetically, rather than making me look like Melania (gorgeous though she is).
OK OK, I’ve had Botox before, but not for a long time. A few tricks of fate have conspired to make me feel (and look) a bit crap recently and I was hoping for some rejuvenation. Lying back on the bed while my doctor wielded her needle I started getting stupidly panicky, forgetting how many times I’d had this procedure in my 30s. I was a bloody lightweight, wincing at the needles, jumping then hoping I hadn’t buggered up my face when she’d approached it with such precision. She was kind, realising that the fact that I’ve had a broken arm for 18 months has probably made me more sensitive to pain. She really took her time, drawing dots on my crows’ feet and evil scowl between the brows (always my favourite bit). And a week later? How do I look? Basically, exactly as I wanted to look: crows’ feet diminished, ditto horrid frown line. Just like me, but better.
