By chance I caught a cutting aside on Radio 4’s usually cosy magazine programme Loose Ends a week ago. A broadsheet writer remarked that, ‘Liz Jones has an awful, artificial face’, prompting chuckles.
This from a woman who’s also a beauty columnist, gave a reading at my wedding and to whom I once gave a too-big Azzedine Alaia skirt and, um, an actual job.
But it got me thinking. What prompted me to spend a lifetime in stitches? Not the humorous kind – the painful sort that have invasive, obvious, sometimes humiliating, sometimes wonderful, and always expensive – side-effects. Adjusted for inflation, I’ve spent more than £80,000 on treatment for my face (excluding the hideously expensive skincare products which more than triple that, addicted as I was to Revive).
Was it worth it or, as that unsisterly commentator proclaimed, am I indeed awful, a laughing stock? It’s true I remain unloved and alone, so perhaps she has a point? Let’s discuss, shall we?
Liz Jones has no regrets – but says once you start fiddling, you’re like the Forth Bridge
Thread vein and hair removal
In 1977, I arrived as a student in a London awash with punk, but I was obsessing about a cluster of red veins beneath my right eye and the contents of Vogue, which I had started reading in the autumn of that year. My favourite model was the make-up free Sloane Condren, shot by the legendary Bruce Weber. That’s who I wanted to be. Wholesome, natural, effortlessly beautiful.
I was on a meagre student grant, but still I scurried to the Hawkins clinic on Beauchamp Place in Knightsbridge, where the spidery veins were cauterised. I was prescribed a healing pot of cream made from snail shells: £200 (in 1970s prices). Desperate for a boyfriend, anorexic and hairy (a starved body strives to keep warm), I next went to the nearby Tao electrolysis clinic: a cavernous space filled with beds behind screens, like a field hospital.
The hair on my chin, upper lip, nostrils and nipples was painfully zapped. I was told I would need a course of six treatments. I duly returned, week in, week out – for more than a year.
Cost: Thermocoagulation was £100 a session. Each Tao session cost approx £20 for 15 minutes.
Was it worth it? The thermocoagulation merely turned the blood vessels brown, while the wiry hair persisted. I remained covered-up, boyfriend-free and destined to wax for eternity.
Breast reduction
My breasts were unlike anything in Vogue. I had a rare glimpse of myself topless and was horrified so, aged 29, I went to my GP who, without examining me, agreed I needed a reduction, but said it could not be done on the NHS.
Telling not even the sister I lived with, I booked surgery at a private clinic. The surgeon drew on my breasts with a felt-tipped pen (I felt so ashamed). The next morning, coming round from anaesthesia, I looked down at my flat chest encased in bloody bandages and was thrilled.
The surgeon reappeared: ‘You won’t be able to breast feed, as I relocated your nipples. If they go black, they haven’t taken and there’s nothing I can do.’
Cost: Unlike my new breasts, my cheque for £3,500 bounced!
Was it worth it? I loved my smaller breasts – once the swelling went down, I was a 32A. I felt instantly younger and looked better in clothes. I was told not to drive or sleep on my front, but after a few weeks was able to jog without holding an udder in each hand. Best of all, finally the nipple hair had gone, discarded on the operating room floor alongside my flesh. I still don’t let a man see me naked, given the ugly raised scars and puckering.
Lip filler
Why did I do this? I was working on a fashion magazine in the 90s, surrounded by rich, young women, taunted by Kate Moss’s bee-stung pout. At the spa atop Harrods (the flame to my moth), I had collagen injected into my lips.
I remember screaming – the pain of the needle entering the vermilion border was far worse than breast surgery. The therapist then massaged the collagen into some semblance of Melanie Griffith-like normality and told me not to kiss anyone for a month. Unlikely!
Cost: £200 to £300 per 1ml syringe.
Was it worth it? The effect swiftly wore off. Bovine collagen used at the time can become infected and other fillers could cause terrible allergic reactions: see Leslie Ash’s trout pout (now happily fixed). These days, hyaluronic acid is used instead.
Laser eye surgery
In 2002, I’d gone on holiday to Jamaica with a new, younger boyfriend and been ashamed of having to put in contact lenses each morning or, worse, wear spectacles. A pioneering new treatment, laser eye surgery, was in the news and I loved the idea of being able to frolic in the surf, unafraid of splashing and teasing.
I went to the now defunct Boots laser clinic on Regent Street. It was scary – a laser would burn and reshape each lens, all while I was conscious. I was told to have someone to take me home afterwards, so the boyfriend reluctantly tagged along.
In fact the procedure was swift, though there was a bonfire-like smell. Afterwards, my eyes were covered in metal grilles, so I felt like Hannibal Lecter, and I was told not to remove them until the next morning.
There must be no animals on the bed, in case of infection, so my poor cats were banished. But, next morning, I could see!
Cost: £1,500 per eye.
Was it worth it? The best decision I ever made (even though I’ve not swum since). I hated the fiddle of lenses. To this day I have 20/20 vision, with no adverse effects.
Semi-permanent eyebrow tattoo and eyelashes
In the 70s, seduced by the Biba posters by photographer Sarah Moon, I’d plucked my eyebrows into a narrow arc. Now in my 40s, I wanted them back.
Again to Harrods, where my brows were tattooed not with feathery strokes, but a solid black stripe that reminded me of Groucho Marx. The procedure was painful, I was told not to shower for a few weeks and assured the crusty scabs would fall away. I had eyelash extensions, too: each hair painstakingly glued in place.
Cost: Brows, £300. Semi-permanent lashes, £300.
Was it worth it? Absolutely not. Within a year, my black brows faded to purple. The lashes required as much maintenance as a Burmese cat, needing to be professionally combed every two weeks; I gave up after two or three applications.
‘Again to Harrods, where my brows were tattooed not with feathery strokes, but a solid black stripe that reminded me of Groucho Marx’, recalls Liz Jones
Half facelift and blepharoplasty
Post a messy divorce, living alone, depressed, aged only 52, I craved a new lease of life. Off I went to see Mr Alex Karidis, a plastic surgeon at the St John and Elizabeth Hospital in north London. He sat me down, placed hands either side of my mouth, and lifted. It was a miracle! I was transformed! He let go. Oh dear.
A few weeks later, I was in his clinic, undergoing surgery.
I was wheeled, terrified, into the operating theatre past a list of patients who had bravely gone before me that day (many were men, undergoing liposuction), and placed under general anaesthetic. When I woke after several hours, my eyes were covered in bandages. I vomited. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such pain. I kept thinking: ‘Why have I done this?’
Next day I was smuggled into a taxi with a nurse to recuperate at a London hotel. I couldn’t chew, so for several days subsisted on pineapple juice, drunk through a straw. When home, I had to wear a face sling for a fortnight. My dogs didn’t recognise me.
Cost: £10,000 for the facelift, £3,000 for the blepharoplasty.
Was it worth it? I don’t regret it at all. I no longer have dark hollows beneath my eyes and you cannot see the incisions along the lash line. Drawbacks? I can’t whistle and the skin behind my ears is numb. But I reclaimed the seven years I’d wasted on the wrong man. On my first public outing, everyone told me I looked amazing. For the first time in my life, I believed them.
Off I went to see Mr Alex Karidis for a facelift. He sat me down, placed hands either side of my mouth, and lifted. It was a miracle!
Botox and filler
After the facelift, I was advised to top up every eight months with Botox and filler. Botox is quick, relatively pain-free and works, paralysing the subcutaneous muscles so you can’t frown or crinkle. Filler adds youthful volume.
Cost: Per syringe of Botox £350, filler £250 to £400-plus per 1ml syringe. I must have spent at least £5,000 on these jabs.
Was it worth it? My forehead is smooth and the lines around my eyes and nose softened, but the effects don’t last: you need a top up after a few months. Also, beware of bruising. I went to a work party after Botox and was asked if my new man had beaten me up. ‘No, I do this to myself.’
Filler also doesn’t last and can be dangerous: on rare occasions it can migrate to the eyes, causing blindness.
Hand rejuvenation
My hands and feet, so my ex-husband told me, are my ‘best feature’. Headlines were meanwhile telling me a wrinkly pair of paws is a dead giveaway for women who otherwise look young. At The Private Clinic in Knightsbridge, fat was extracted from my thighs under local anaesthetic, then injected into the backs of my 55-year-old hands. Age spots were lasered. I was told to stay out of the sun. Today I never wash up.
Cost: £2,500.
Was it worth it? Not really – I could barely notice the difference and the fat soon melted away.
At The Private Clinic in Knightsbridge, fat was extracted from my thighs under local anaesthetic, then injected into the backs of my 55-year-old hands. Age spots were lasered
Brow transplant
I’d been having my brows tinted to mask the purple, which never, ever disappears, so an eyebrow transplant seemed a perfect solution. Three years ago, I went to the Harley Street Hair Clinic, where a portrait of Wayne Rooney hangs in reception. The desired shape was drawn on for approval.
Next, I was laid face down, which I wasn’t expecting, while a patch on the back of my head was shaved and 370 plugs (root with hair attached) were extracted, then placed carefully in a petri dish. Next, I was flipped, and the plugs inserted into incisions in my brows, 185 on each side.
It wasn’t painful, but my face was hosed with water during the procedure, so it was like being water boarded, drowning in my own vanity. After what felt like an entire day, the surgeon was done. I looked odd: teeny towers of white skin lined up like soldiers on each brow, a black hair planted in each, like a potting shed.
I was told not to shower, swim or wear make-up for a few weeks and to gently ‘train’ the hairs with a finger or toothbrush to lie in the right direction.
Cost? £6,000.
Was it worth it? You bet. The only problem is that as the brows are head hair, they grow continuously. Untrimmed, I resemble Martin Scorsese. Also, they grow grey quickly, so need tinting every fortnight. But I love my Brooke Shields brows.
I’d been having my brows tinted to mask the purple, which never, ever disappears, so an eyebrow transplant seemed a perfect solution
Turkey teeth
I’m still at it! This year, ashamed of my fillings, chipped veneers and receding gums, I travelled to Dentakay in Istanbul, inspired by the women on Love Island. In 2001, I’d had veneers cemented on in Harley Street for the cost of a small car, but these were now past their sell-by date.
The veneers and enamel were drilled away, my 24 tiny stumps covered with Zirconium crowns (long-lasting, no ugly seam), and flesh taken from the roof of my mouth to be sewn over my receding gums. This was the only painful part: my palate was sore for weeks, and I still must only brush the implanted gums gently upwards.
Cost: £6,173; Harley Street would have hovered around £30,000.
Was it worth it? Absolutely. Perfect teeth mean I’m more sociable, no longer cover my mouth with my hand. For those who have lost teeth or suffer from pain and find it impossible to get treatment on the NHS, Turkey teeth can be life changing.
I’m not ashamed of my many tweaks. The aesthetic industry is booming – the British Association Of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons reported a 5 per cent rise in cosmetic surgical procedures last year, with a total of 27,462 procedures performed. But why are we so uncomfy in our skins?
For me, it was the fashion and beauty industries that told me I wasn’t good enough. But I found that once you start fiddling, you’re like the Forth Bridge: the rest of you must measure up.
So will I stop now, or carry on? I’m tempted by the deep plane facelift favoured by Kris Jenner, 70, and mother to the Kardashian clan, which is almost affordable these days if you travel to Turkey.
But I too will be 70 in three years and can never look ‘young’. And wouldn’t Jenner’s face need to be matched with newfound energy, ambition, youthful vigour?
I visited an aesthetic clinic in Harley Street last week for a clear-eyed assessment. The practitioner took a 3D Visage diagnostic scan of my face (‘It goes deep, beyond what we see with the naked eye’) and prescribed something called a Glass Skin Trio set (£345) for pore refining, brightening and hydrating to make me less tortoise-like in the morning, Thermage skin tightening (£2,995) once a year, a Dye-VL laser for brown spots and broken thread veins (£1,496 for a course of six), a CO2 laser for skin quality (£4,500 for three sessions) and… well, the list goes on.
For the moment, I think I’ll pass. And try not to listen to the Mean Girls on Radio 4.
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