I who have never stuck a needle in my face
on plastic surgery and the trends that keep us under the thumb of the ultra wealthy
It’s always fun to look back over the history of societal trends. They prove that the only constant is change, and that the human existence always has been and always will be a preposterous spectacle of delusion.
I find it strangely comforting.
It’s easy to dismiss people from the past as ridiculous—those simple fools— but I’m sure 300 years from now, people will look back on the things we’re doing now with the same level of derision.
Let me direct your attention for a moment to one such thing: the powdered wig.
I’ll admit, until now, I’ve spent close to zero time thinking about powdered wigs. I chalked them up to a simple sign of the times—a fashion trend—and left it at that.
But during a recent 10-open-tabs research rabbit hole, I found that there was so much more to these pieces of aristocratic garb than meets the eye—and rather than a simple relic of a bygone era, they hold up a mirror to the societal and beauty standards we abide by today.
In the 18th century, Europeans had some… colorful… ideas about hygiene. Not too dissimilar from today, the upper echelon of society held steadfast to the cutting edge of science. Which, in this case, was the idea that bathing—particularly in warm water—would open the pores and let diseases in. Laugh all you want, but in their defense, bacteria had only just been discovered, their association with disease wouldn’t be made for 100+ more years, and in a time before sanitation and plumbing, the water available wasn’t exactly clean.
Considering everyone was dropping like flies from Smallpox, Tuberculosis, and garden-variety infections (and childbirth—ope), taking a bath, to their knowledge, was like playing roulette.
Instead, aristocrats turned to the frequent changing of linen undergarments to stay clean, which they believed drew out and absorbed impurities. That, and copious amounts of perfume.
Frequent, full-body bathing was also associated with… the poors, who often bathed publicly, within full view.
However, with all of this lack of bathing, their hair became a gnarly, matted, oily mess that was also a lice hotel. So, their solution was: put a wig on it.
Not only were wigs practical, they signaled status. The more elaborate the wig, the more wealth, status, and leisure it implied. Commoners could not afford these showy, ornate wigs (or their upkeep), so they became a visual delineator of class and social status.
Eventually, though, as goes with pretty much every status signal, the middle classes wanted in.
As the demand for wigs by the middle class exploded, the supply increased—and the quality decreased. Wig-makers started using horsehair, goat hair, discarded hair from servants, and hair bought from peasants to keep up with demand. The result was cheap—and cheap-looking—wigs that the merchant and artisan classes wore to distinguish themselves from the labor class.
With just enough money to play the game, but not enough to look convincingly elite, these entry-level models were too small, too stiff, and often scratchy and matted with lines that didn’t blend, curls that didn’t hold, and patchy powder jobs.
In a classic twist of elites invent a thing, the middle class tries to mimic the elites, elites hate being copied, elites pivot, leaving the common folk in the dust with their meager crumbs, moving the goal post, once again, the bourgeois started moving towards simpler, more natural hairstyles (and started bathing, huzzah). Also, around the same time that the popularity of wigs was starting to wane, the French Revolution was kicking into high gear, and it was no longer advantageous to stick out so aristocratically.
And so, wigs fell into obsolescence.
—
By now, you’re probably thinking, Cool. But why are you giving me a history lesson about 18th-century bathing habits and wig trends in an article that I was led to believe was about plastic surgery?
And to that, I say, Fair.
But hear me out:
When I was knee deep in this rabbit hole, it became glaringly obvious how often this exact same cycle plays out in society, again and again. Things come in and out of fashion, almost always led by the wealthy, and as trends rise and fall, they can seem relatively innocuous— frivolous, even.
It’s incredibly similar to what we’re seeing play out before our very eyes with plastic surgery, but unlike powdered wigs, it is anything but innocuous, and certainly not frivolous.
—
It wasn’t very long ago that if you were talking about plastic surgery, you were likely talking about how bad it looked. There were very few examples of plastic surgery done well. But boy, have we come a long way in a very short amount of time.
Even though plastic surgery 20-or-so-odd-years ago was obvious and tacky, it didn’t stop people from getting it. Mostly, I reckon, because it signaled wealth—more disposable income (and the exact right amount of insecurity) than one knew what to do with. Your dentist’s wife, you’re dad’s lawyer friend’s girlfriend, the woman next to you at Pilates at 11:00 AM on a Wednesday—they all had the same face. You know the one: puffy lips, pillowy cheeks, frozen forehead, and a nose so small and thin it practically disappeared if you looked at them head-on. Let’s throw in some comically large breasts, while we’re at it (honestly, Lauren Sanchez is the poster child for this look).
It didn’t look good, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to look rich.
But as filler and Botox—and even more invasive treatments—get more and more accessible, the middle class is starting to catch up. Albeit, a day late and a dollar short, per usual, as the type of treatments the wealthy elites are getting is also evolving.
Right now, middle-class face augmentation has a look, distinct from what the upper crust of society is doing. Your realtor’s forehead doesn’t budge, and your server’s lips could be a comfortable place to rest your head. People are sticking needles in their face, but it’s decidedly different than the hemogenic face of wealth we’re seeing play out, with its sharp jawline, hollow cheeks, blepharoplasty (upper and/or lower), and eyes lifted enough to render anyone ethnically ambiguous.
Just as the 18th-century middle class demanded wigs of their own, the common people of today are demanding to differentiate themselves from the peasants by donning the distinct facial features of wealth.
And as capitalism goes, in a few years, your social media manager friend will have a face as snatched as Emma Stone’s…
At which point, the rich and glamorous won’t want it anymore. Once everyone has augmented their faces beyond recognition, reversing it all will, I’m willing to speculate, become the next inaccessible status symbol. And as the world turns on the ultra wealthy, just as in the French Revolution, and as the rise of AI and the rejection of things that look too perfect starts to permeate the social fabric, natural faces will be in, and it will yet again be the middle class left in the dust with their teeny noses.
Not needing plastic surgery, being “naturally” beautiful, will be the next signifier of wealth because it will mean you have access to the diet, lotions, potions, technology, and—what it all ultimately always comes back to—lifestyle, that allows you to age gracefully.
Or, maybe the augmentation will continue until people look like cats. Who’s to say?
But what is clear is that these cycles are as old as time and predictable. Humans are social creatures, and we will always be preoccupied with status because status = safety and security. I can’t fault anyone for wanting a little slice of the pie.
That said, because I can’t just leave things alone, I can’t help but think about how following trends set by elites sets us up for failure long term.
—
An example of one such trend that went too far and caused long-term damage is lawns.
Yes, lawns.
Starting around the Renaissance, wealthy estates in England and France started incorporating giant swaths of land that produced nothing—no crops, no grazing animals—just manicured grass to show off that they had so much money that they could afford to have all this land sit idle and not use it for food. Look at my pointless, labor-intensive (labor not done by me, of course, but by my slaves) green carpet. Over time, a perfectly manicured, green lawn became a hallmark of homes of the wealthy.
As we industrialized, new machinery and suburban planning made lawns accessible to the middle class, so they could, yet again, try their hand at convincing the ultra-wealthy that they belonged, and to distinguish themselves from the lower class, who didn’t have the time, money, or energy for lawn maintenance.
And now, because everyone is trying to cosplay as Mr. Money Bags, we have rampant food insecurity, soil degradation, polluted waterways and cancer from pesticides, and water shortages—because lawns, which do fuck-all, are the most irrigated “crop” in the United States.
Amazing.
And it seems to me that the minds, souls, and well-being of women are the next food deserts and toxic rivers at the hands of trends passed down but the ultra-wealthy.
—
I have never put a needle in my face. But I’d be lying if I said I never felt the sting of temptation—if I said I never spent too much time gazing at beautiful women I admire in my 2D rectangle, and looked in the mirror and saw nothing but dull skin, cheeks that are starting to show evidence that gravity exists, one weirdly hooded eye, and a very particular wrinkle under the other that practically cuts my face in half—it’s sharpness making up for the dullness of my jawline, then typed “best med spa near me” into my search bar.
But I’ve remained strong. Mostly, because… I’m poor. Ok, maybe not poor, but I certainly don’t have the expendable income for cosmetic procedures. And if I did, I could think of at least 100 other things I’d rather spend my money on before I found myself in the lobby of a place called Ageless Health Medicine.
And that’s the thing: our minds have been warped to believe that aging is a personal failure, and the thing we should value most—the only way to gain safety, status, and success in this world as a woman over 20—is having the same homogeneous face as everyone else that looks good in a front-facing camera.
Not gaining wisdom, not having an experience, not being skilled, not knowing yourself deeper, not being kind, but your face.
So many women, many of whom have yet to even see the latter half of their thirties—shoot, their thirties period—are going broke to prevent all evidence of aging. Victims of a beauty-industrial complex that has flooded them with messaging for decades that their only value in this world is their youth and beauty. Our heightened emotional aptitude is used as a weapon against us, stoking our worst fears, which are then used to keep us grasping at relevancy, continually changing our faces to comply with whatever is currently en vogue, always chasing the ever-moving goal post, never happy, never satisfied. And, of course, they’re not just doing it for kicks—beauty is a hundreds-of-billions-of-dollars industry, and there must be growth every quarter. A happy customer is a customer lost.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it a million more times: If you don’t know what you value, the world will make up your mind for you, and that is an expensive, isolating, contemptuous road of existence to walk down.
—
What concerns me the most is how all of this obsession with never aging is affecting us on a physical, mental, and spiritual level.
The thing that probably keeps me the most steadfast in my resistance to augmenting my face and body is that all of these things we’re altering are indicators of health—their subtle signals and variations can tell us a lot about what’s happening internally.
Not only do I not get cosmetic procedures; I don’t dye my hair, I don’t get my nails done, I barely wear make-up… heck, I don’t even wear deodorant (and no, I don’t stink). Yes, these are also economical moves, but skin that’s more dull than usual, that’s breaking out, a sudden spurt of grey hair, brittle nails, smelly pits—these are all things I use as guides. Am I sleeping enough? Drinking enough water? Taking on too much stress? Not getting enough nutrients? Not getting outside enough?
Sure, these things aren’t fun, but away from cultural standards, they’re bits of neutral information, and I don’t want to muddy the waters by altering them or covering them up.
I don’t want to sound like a conspiracy theorist, but if I were to put my tin foil hat on, it feels like all of these interventions serve to further disconnect us from ourselves. And the more we’re disconnected from ourselves, the more we become dependent on the powers that be for their interventions—be it cosmetic, medical, or otherwise—and the easier we are to control.
And look, obviously, people can do whatever makes them happy. I’m not at all trying to imply that this makes me better than anyone. I’m not perfect and honestly go to great, albeit different, lengths to maintain my appearance. There’s a strong chance I would get a laser treatment or two if it were accessible to me. Society treats those it deems attractive more favorably. Let’s not be naive here. But I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea that injecting a toxin to smooth out expression lines is making anyone genuinely happy in the long term.
This is the kind of thing I assume they’ll be looking back on in 300 years with derision, saying, What the fuck?
It’s more than just altering the way that you look; it’s an erasure of self. Of the things you’ve experienced and learned—the things that actually make you who you are. Of all evidence of the times you’ve smiled, laughed, cried, thought deeply, or became overcome by rage. Of the things that give you substance and depth. Of lineage. Of all of the women who came before you and had to endure some truly insane shit for you to be here.
I think of all of the women who were denied the privilege of getting to know what they would look like as an old woman. In a time where hyper-individualism is par for the course, where are the wise, older women to guide us? How can there ever be a Crone when everyone is obsessed with staying the Maiden? When we erase our wrinkles, we erase the need for them, too.
And beauty and youth are not mutually exclusive, by the way. It’s easy to confuse the two when youth is so over-valued in our culture because of strong patriarchal undercurrents, which is frankly, gross, and I don’t feel like getting into it, but I’ll let this graph do the talking:
Youth is fleeting. But beauty? Beauty can deepen over time. It can’t be bought, and it’s not a trend. The world often insists that aging diminishes appeal, that wrinkles erase worth, but real beauty—confidence, presence, the ease of knowing oneself—is entirely ageless. Moving through the world with kindness and depth shines out of your face and adds a brightness that not even the best laser can achieve. To conflate beauty with youth is to flatten its complexity and narrow the vastness of the human experience.
Speaking of the human experience, when we freeze everyone’s face, something much deeper than aesthetics starts to unravel.
I’ve been noticing it more and more, but it struck me particularly hard while watching the second season of Nobody Wants This—the main actresses, Kristen Bell and Justine Lupe, have faces so frozen it’s hard to connect with their performances. And now that it’s entered your awareness, you’ll start to see it everywhere: So many movies that have come out recently lack emotional depth because the leading actresses’ faces are incapable of showing micro expressions, and it makes their performances fall flat, and the story hard to get into.
Alfred Hitchcock once said that “The greatest special effect is a close-up of the human face”.
93% of communication is nonverbal. Humans are excellent at picking up subtle cues from body language—we’re wired for it—and this includes the small, complex range of expressions we make with our faces.
These micro expressions are how you can tell if someone is genuinely happy to see you, if they’re lying, or if your friend needs you to step in and rescue her from the creepy guy at the bar. Just the other week I was in a shop, and it didn’t take me long to realize that when the girl working asked me if I needed help finding anything, she desperately wanted me to say yes to save her from talking to the only other customer there who was there that was clearly bothering her (we bonded, and she gave me chocolate and an employee discount).
These subtle facial cues are how we connect, communicate, and relate to other people, and how other people connect, communicate, and relate to us. With a frozen face that can’t express a wide range of nuanced emotions, people don’t know how to read us, which can result in us becoming misunderstood. That misunderstanding getting reflected back to us can be extremely frustrating and distressing.
The mind and body work together in a two-way loop, and it’s been found that when young women can’t fully express emotion with their faces, it restricts their emotional growth, ability to accurately convey how they feel, and dampens their emotional cognition to a point where some women report anxiety, depression, and lack of emotional depth after getting Botox.
—
Finally, in a time with unprecedented levels of wealth and, subsequently, leisure, those at the top have decided that the last hurdle to tackle—the final frontier—is aging.
Beyond aging; not dying.
Conquering time itself.
The final frontier and cutting edge of science is overcoming death, just like the cutting edge of science in the 1700s was lock-tight pores.
Mortality seems to have always been a preoccupation of the elites, but now, science has gone so far that vanquishing it feels eerily within grasp. Now, it’s not enough to look young; you also have to have a biological age that’s at least 20 years younger than what’s on your birth certificate, and plastic surgery has gotten so advanced that it can give you a face to match. The ultra-wealthy are willing to do whatever it takes, including injecting themselves with all manner of strange things, as long as it sends them careening in the opposite direction of death.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but everything dies. Everything must die. That’s the price we pay for getting to exist on this miraculous planet. And to deny that is a symptom of separation—from ourselves, each other, nature, the cosmos, and the divine.
Right now, we’re as spiritually bankrupt as ever, and it’s reflecting itself in the way we face, fear, and deny aging. This is more than an aesthetic trend—it’s evidence of how little faith we have in our place in the circle of life.
—
Here’s the thing: natural beauty will never go out of style, and real beauty is unaffected by trends.
Just like the gardens, vintage clothes, and analogue everything are making a comeback, it’s clear to me that what people are craving now, more than ever, is something authentic. Something tangible. Something imperfect. Something real—including faces.
Perfection is boring. When everyone looks the same, has no discernible flaws, no quirks or defining characteristics, life loses all spark. The marks and little eccentricities are what make someone memorable—they tell a story, hint at depth, invite curiosity. Flaws are the fingerprints of humanity, the brushstrokes that turn a blank canvas into something that evokes emotion. No shade at modern art, but it feels like the difference between a blue square painted on a wall, and a Van Gogh.
In a time where the standard of beauty belongs to the highest bidder, embracing your natural, naked face is an act of rebellion.
And I suggest we rebel.
If you enjoyed this piece and want to support my work, but don’t want to commit to a subscription, I get it:
Thank you to Sky Fisher for the inspiration for the rabbit hole that inspired this piece.
You may also enjoy…
Interestingly, the inability to show micro expressions also leads to a loss of empathy, because one aspect of empathy is that we inadvertently mimic the emotional expressions of others, and that impacts our brain and emotions. This to me is actually the most disturbing aspect of the botox trend.
I want to read this every day until it becomes embedded within my being, until I can look in the mirror and feel completely peaceful - excited even - at the story of time gradually unfolding on my face.