Desperate | The New Yorker
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A fiftysomething writer’s quest to get injectables.
Save this story Save this story I first got Botox about eight years ago, at a med spa on a busy, ugly stretch of Highway 49 in Placer County, California. On my way there, I read a church marquee’s folksy but intrinsically terrifying warning about the perils of nonbelief in Jesus, and a bumper sticker that claimed “Guns Don’t Kill People Abortion Clinics Do.” Back then, I wasn’t aware of any Botox clinics near my home, in Nevada County, where land acknowledgments are made before art-house movie screenings, and bumper stickers are more likely to quote Mary Oliver or Osho. So close yet so far, Pl
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