By LIZ JONES


Holding back time: Madonna, left, and plastic surgery addict Jocelyn Wildenstein


Studying the photographs of Madonna taken last week at the Venice Film Festival, I’ve been trying to work out who she reminds me of.

A friend looking over my shoulder thinks that Madonna — who, like me, is 53, a fact that means I have always compared myself to her over the decades — resembles none other than Bette Davis, circa her Whatever Happened To Baby Jane? days.

There is something about Madonna’s mouth that reminds my friend of the Hollywood star in one of her most famous roles.


But as I look at Madonna, who is suspected of having undergone numerous cosmetic procedures and appears most recently to have overdone the amount of filler she has pumped into her skin to the point where I worry she might pop, I realise she reminds me of someone whose face I know intimately. She reminds me of me.

Is it possible that the former Material Girl has fallen foul of a terrible modern affliction I like to call Not Knowing When To Stop?

It can creep up on you, almost unawares. You become seduced by a certain cosmetic procedure, and cling to it like an inflatable life raft, thinking it will save you.

The problem is that it can be so easy to lose track not only of reality, but of what is acceptable, desirable, attainable and affordable.

How on earth, I always wondered, did women such as Jocelyn Wildenstein go so far with their plastic surgery? How did Michael Jackson not know that his nose was disappearing and his eyes becoming larger than life?

I had a full facelift six months ago. It was accompanied by its frequent bedfellows: filler injected into the crevasses running from nose to mouth and Botox — which, in my case, I had in my forehead and around the outer corners of my eyes.

I remember waking up the day after surgery and peering in a mirror at my face, swaddled in bandages, and looking at my eyes, which were very round and droopy. I thought: ‘I’ve turned into the man who made Thriller. All I need now is a silver-spangled glove and a pet monkey.’

The eyes got better, as my surgeon said they would, as my facial muscles became used to their new position and strength. Despite all the bruising and swelling I already loved the fact my face no longer looked so hangdog.

I had lost the turkey wobble under my chin, and the fat that had slid, exhausted, from my cheeks to somewhere around my chin was firmly back where it ought to be.

But it was a few weeks after the facelift that I discovered the joys — oh, the miracle! — of my next cosmetic procedure: filler.

The most ageing aspect of a woman’s face is when it develops crevasses so deep you could almost keep your knitting in them. Mine were so defined that no amount of YSL Touche Eclat concealer and Chanel foundation could disguise them.

My face pre-surgery also looked baggy. I remember when Madonna’s face looked like this, too: it all gets a bit hamster-like around the chops.

A facelift makes everything tighter, but what it doesn’t do is give it that youthful plumpness, which is where filler comes in.

Pursuit of perfection: Liz has had fillers, a face lift and eye bag removal to achieve her new look, left


So when my surgeon deemed me ready, precisely four weeks after surgery, I had local anaesthetic around my mouth and nose, and liquid filler injected into the ridges.

The surgeon then placed his fingers in my mouth, and squidged the liquid (made up of a gel composed of non-animal-stabilised hyaluronic acid) to the desired shape and contours.

This filler costs about £395 per syringe. I had one vial in each side. It turned out the right side of my face was more ravaged due to the fact I sleep on that side. The filler should last about eight months, depending on how animated your face is.

The effects were so astounding I wondered why I hadn’t tried this years ago. And because the difference is instantaneous, the procedure is notoriously addictive.

(Botox takes about a week to paralyse the nerve endings of your muscles, and I remember looking in my rear-view mirror when it kicked in. I almost crashed my car I was so astounded at my trouble-free forehead.)

Want proof that filler is the new heroin? Well, a few days after I had my first dose, I went to the dentist, who manhandled my mouth. Back I went to my medical spa.

‘The dentist ruined the left side of my face! Give me more filler! It’s an emergency!’

Last week, knowing I was off to New York for the fashion shows, I had several vials of filler in my face before take-off.

The bill for filler, Botox and IPL — a light-based laser treatment that zaps pigmentation problems and fine lines — on hands, face and torso came to a shade under £2,000.

I had to go to a new spa, as the surgeon who performed my facelift and blepharoplasty (or eye bag removal) said no, I’m fine as I am.

Did this cause me to pause in my pursuit of so-called perfection, to ask myself: ‘How much is too much?’ No, of course it didn’t. I felt thwarted. I felt that I knew my body and face best. Which I don’t.

‘There are no official guidelines about how much is too much,’ says Nigel Mercer, consultant plastic surgeon and former president of the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons.

‘The problem is that even if a reputable surgeon refuses to treat a patient, there will always be someone who will eventually give them what they think they want.’

He’s absolutely right. When my surgeon said no, I found one who said yes. Because, to me, filler has become second nature, like getting my legs waxed.

Eyelash extensions, too, have become as natural to me as cleaning my teeth: these need fortnightly tops-ups, and I have gels to keep my lashes moist.

Lining up for more: Cosmetic surgery can quickly become addictive (posed by model)


The fact there are treatments out there that I haven’t tried yet has sent me into a frenzy. How about carboxy therapy, in which carbon dioxide is injected deep into scar tissue, using an inch-long needle? Vogue says it’s great for stretch marks or Caesarean scars. Lead me to the needle!

I have been considering the latest in cosmetic dentistry — Airflow Dental Detox.

Offered in Harley Street, the ‘detox for your mouth’ involves a treatment called gum regenerative surgery that encourages your gums to grow back. This is crucial, as it has been revealed (probably by a survey of Harley Street dentists) that receding gums age a woman far more than uneven skin tone, thread veins and great-grandchildren.

But once you start tinkering with nature, you see, everything else suddenly seems out of kilter. Bits of you no longer match. My hands now seem old, so I’ve been having IPL therapy to zap any brown spots.

A beauty PR friend is also desperate for me to book in for filler on the backs of my hands because, and I quote: ‘Your hands are getting a little bit Sarah Jessica Parker.’

Dear God! I’m not sure whether this is an insult, but it sure as hell felt like one.

The reason some stars have no stop button when it comes to cosmetic procedures is not just financial. It isn’t even about vanity, as it wasn’t with me. Confident women with full lives rarely do what we do; they don’t have time. They are happy with who they are.

I hoped my new face and hands, and the fact I will hopefully no longer be ‘long in the tooth’ if the miracle dentistry pans out, would make me more confident. But I’m not sure yet.

I am more cheerful, but while before I worried I’d be mistaken for Captain Pugwash, now being mistaken for the Material Girl no longer qualifies as a Good Thing.

Everyone knows I’ve had ‘work’ done. Waiting in line in the Apple store, I had thought I was looking hip and trendy until the woman behind the desk asked me, wincing: ‘Can I touch your face? I’ve never seen one up close before.’

And here is a sobering tale. I had lunch with Twiggy last week. I sat inches from her face and, while still beautiful with luminous blue eyes, I could see the years etched upon it.

She confirmed what I could see, saying: ‘I have never had anything done. I have a fear of anything being injected into my face. I worry it might leach into my brain.’

I wonder what keeps her so beautiful. My God, she smoked until two years ago. She doesn’t look freakishly young, she looks like a woman in her 60s, but still turns heads. ‘It’s because I’m happy,’ she said. ‘I laugh a lot.’

Can you imagine Twiggy with a plump face, with no laughter lines, with all her experiences wiped clean? It would be a travesty.

That is the secret. To have a great life. And not to look like a weird blowfish, gasping for air, desperate to be loved.


source:dailymail