Okay, it’s confession time. A few weeks ago I did something  quite out for character for me. I tried Botox. Now, before I continue I should say that whilst I’m conscious of the way I look I’ve never really considered myself as vain. Not in a mirror-gazing,’do my moobs look big in this?’ way, anyway. Like many men (especially ones now in their fourth decade) I’m more insecure than vain – especially about the lumps and bumps that seem to have appeared from nowhere.

And though I’ve been offered Botox on several occasions I’ve always politely declined. I’ve always told people that I really don’t mind having more wrinkles than a Shar Pei. And besides, I’m a naturally expressive (read ‘borderline theatrical’) person. But the subtle jibes (a PR recently told me my face had ‘character’ and a friend commented that she loved my ‘craggy little mug’) started to take their toll. I’m only human after all. 

Looking in the mirror one morning (ok, so I do look in one sometimes) it became glaringly obvious  to me that a previous life as a Gitane fan, one-too-many Grecian holiday and a lifetime of expressiveness rarely found outside of the Sylvia Young Theatre School had left me, if not quite as wrinkly as a Rolling Stone, then certainly a bit on the Gordon Ramsay side.

And so I took the plunge and had some. Eight injections in all  - six above the brow and two between, at the top of my hooter.  Sensing my obvious apprehension (I almost bolted out of the door when the rubber gloves came on) the very able Dr Mervyn Patterson (a man who has taught others how to administer Botox) went easy on it I suspect – especially after I reiterated that under no circumstances did I want to end up looking like a boiled egg/Nicole Kidman. In fact the bits above the brow were where I stopped, forgoing the invitation to do the crow’s feet and forehead for ‘another time’. 

The following week I did suffer from a few of the commonly reported side effects – headaches, flu-like tiredness, excessive mirror-gazing and bizarrely felt as though a hoard of tiny spiders had hatched under my skin. At one point I convinced myself I had a Klingon-style forehead ridge. I’ll save the daily  ’will my eyelids droop today?’ paranoia for another time because, frankly even I got bored of that in the end.

On this last count, though, I needn’t have worried because Mr Patterson certainly knows what he’s doing, which is crucial  because  droopage is a condition more often associated with  poor technique rather than a haphazard migration of the toxin to neighbouring muscles.

Sooooo….the burning question is do I look younger? Well, a teeny bit yes but I didn’t dare to have too much so I reckon I’ve only knocked off a few years or so. And thankfully I can still move my eyebrows, which is nice. I can’t do my Roger Moore impression any more but that will come back in time  once the Botox wears off in a few months.

And would I recommend it? Well, this is a much more difficult call.  On balance I’m inclined to say no. But that’s not because the results aren’t good –  it’s because the whole vanity thing just isn’t me. Having Botox had the unexpected side effect of making me re-evaluate what’s important in life. And I can’t say that having a wrinkle-free brow is up there with the things that matter. If I was a celebrity whose face was the key to my income then yes, I’d be all for it. But as it is I’m happier just being who I am –  craggy, ‘characterful’ little face and all. 

For treatments: www.woodfordmedical.com

Illustration by the Egg Of Truth