The wonderful Joan Collins famously once said: ‘The problem with beauty is that it’s like being born rich, and getting poorer.’
One morning in the summer of 2007, I looked at myself in the mirror and suddenly knew with searing clarity what she meant.
I hated what I saw staring back at me. In my youth, I had been one of the most celebrated models of my generation — a supermodel before the term had been invented. To take up Joan’s analogy, I hadn’t just been born rich; I’d been born a millionaire.
Now here I was, peering at my 48-year-old self in the mirror, wondering where my lovely face had gone.
It seemed as if it was slowly sliding off my head. I looked cross, tired and worried, even when I was feeling chipper. Put simply, my inside wasn’t matching my outside — a feeling most women no longer in the first flush of youth will recognise only too well.
I realised in that moment that I didn’t want to stand idly by as my looks slipped away. I wanted to look as good as I could, no matter what my age.
So there was only one thing for it — to go under the surgeon’s knife.
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