No, Mom, You Can't Have Botox

In which I become the obstacle standing between my mother and a smoother brow

Last year, for my birthday, my mother kept dropping hints about a gift. She was vibrating with excitement, insisting she’d come up with the perfect thing—something we could do together.

When we had her over for dinner, she sat at the kitchen counter, giggling like a teenager.

“Can you guess?” she asked.

“Fortune teller?” I hazard.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Now, before I tell you, I don’t want to hear a word about the cost. Promise me.”

“I absolutely will not promise that,” I said. “Hit me anyway.”

She leaned forward. “Botox.”

The architecture of the scam was instantly clear. She didn’t want to give me a present; she wanted Botox. And the most viable path to getting it was convincing me that I wanted it too, packaging a cosmetic procedure as a mother-daughter bonding experience. Maybe if we were the Kardashians. But that’s not our life.

“Thanks, Mom. But I don’t really want Botox.”

Her smile didn’t budge. If anything, it widened. “Well, it doesn’t have to be Botox. You could get those… what do they call them… fillers? Or what I really want is to get rid of these lines above my lips. See what happens when I purse them?”

She demonstrated. She looked like a talking goldfish, mouth puckered up like a six-year-old who’d raided her mother’s red lipstick.

“And I’ve always hated my upper lip,” she continued, as if I’d said yes. “It’s so thin. Nothing there! So I’d like to get that done, too.”

“Mom...” I tried to intercept before she launched into a full historical review of how a thin upper lip has held her back since 1965. “Mom. I really appreciate the offer, but I’m good.”

She gave me a sly smile. “Well then. How about if I just go?” She giggled again.

And there it was.

While she’d likely convinced herself of the warm, maternal joy of us going together, the bottom line was simple: this wasn’t a birthday gift for me. It was a ruse.

“What do you even want Botox for anyway?” I asked. “You never leave your room. Are you just going to sit in there and stare in the mirror and admire your unlined, plump upper lip?”

Even saying it out loud made my blood boil. We had spent the last four months arguing over whether she could afford pre-made salad kits versus basic bagged lettuce. We were actively looking into Food Stamps for her. And she wanted to throw $400+ at a dermatologist.

When I told her it was an irresponsible use of money, she asked if I only thought that because of her age.

I said yes.

She was offended.

I reverted to the indefensible Karate Kid crane pose: “You never leave your room!”

Watching the hurt pout form on her face, I tried damage control with flattery. “You’re already the best-looking woman in your building. Your skin is flawless. You look years younger than anyone else there.”

She crumbled under the onslaught. “Fine. Can we just go get me some clothes then?”

We’d already planned to do that anyway, so I relented. “Sure, Mom.”

The truth is, if I thought a syringe of neurotoxin would actually fix things for her, I’d probably let her do it. But I’ve watched this cycle long enough to know the math. A $300 haircut solves everything for about a week. A new wardrobe makes her feel better for 48 hours. Botox might buy a month of relief. Then the high fades, the underlying insecurity and anxiety creep back in, and she starts hunting for the next big purchase to hit the dopamine button.

A few units of paralyzing poison and a fluffier upper lip can’t cure what ails her.

And then there’s the money. That’s the part that gnaws at me. Yes, technically it’s her money. Until it runs out. The moment an emergency hits, it becomes our money—mine and my sister’s. So her paying for my “birthday Botox” was really just me watching my future safety net get injected into a forehead.

My husband asked if my feelings were hurt by the scam. My answer is no. I’m not saddened by the fact that my mom used my birthday as an excuse to get what she wants as I am filled with pity for her.

Pity that she thinks Botox can fix an internal void. Pity that she’s still trapped in the tyranny of female appearance at her age. Sadness that she tried to pull a clumsy scheme on her own child, and deeper sadness that she had to scheme in the first place—because we had to take away her bank account to save her from herself.

The tragic irony, of course, is that pulling stunts like this is the exact reason she lost the account in the first place.

And look, it’s not that I’m against Botox. It’s just a matter of timing.

Give me another twelve months of managing her finances, and I’ll be begging a dermatologist for enough neurotoxin to paralyze the permanent scowl frozen on my face.