Confessions Of A Cosmetic Junkie

By 2030, Katherine Ryan wants to contain less organic material than a hot dog. Here, she defends her right to a designer face.

People have genuinely asked whether I grew up in an igloo. I didn’t. My garbage Canadian town actually got really hot every summer, and I spent scorching afternoons with my face under a wet towel as the only mid-level ginger in a group of caramel-skinned girls. My mother used to shout out the kitchen window to the pool when my friends and I were 13: “Get out of the sun or you’ll wrinkle! You don’t wake up one day in your forties not caring what you look like!” Back then, we all imagined we’d be married and/or dead by 40.

My mother was right. I’m 34 now and, thanks to Medispa facials, skin resurfacing, Botox and fillers, I’m probably an environmental risk and no longer eligible to be buried at sea. But, hey, I look better for it, and aim to contain less organic material than a hot dog by 2030. I care what I look like. I did then, I do now and I will forever.

But tell me this… why is there still so much stigma attached to cosmetic enhancement?

Why is it acceptable to spend money on fashion, but not on your face? You know I’m partial to a designer wardrobe staple, but I wear my skin every day of the year. I refuse to let a tabloid culture tell me I can’t invest my money in science: the science of tricking my skin into thinking it has been injured so it mass-produces collagen. The science of forcing synthetic fat into my lips so they more closely resemble my vagina. The science of relaxing muscles in my forehead so I can attend a funeral and still look like I’m having the time of my life. It’s the future, ladies. And I’m here for it.