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  • Daily Mail columnist Liz Jones isn’t the first person you’d think of joining a celebrity themed reality show. But the writer has become better known for her personal scandals than for her interviews, so it makes sense. Especially as she has had enough plastic surgery for all the celebrities in the house.

    55-year old Liz Jones has showcased celebrity plastic surgery in her column—good, bad or indifferent, but readily admits that she is amongst the women who are trying valiantly to turn back the tides of time.

    Liz first started her obsession with plastic surgery at age 29, when she underwent a double mastectomy in order to look more like a model she liked. Since then she has had a facelift, eyelid surgery, fillers, Botox and other tweaks to keep her looking as stunning as her favorite stars.

     

    She writes about her experience with plastic surgery, beginning with her first visit to a plastic surgeon:

     

    “Is there anything you can do with facials, expensive creams, microdermabrasion?” I asked the surgeon.

     

    “No. The only thing that will help is a face lift. And blepharoplasty — eyebag surgery.”

     

    I did not have puffiness; rather, half-moon crevices that loomed beneath each eye, craters that spoke of decades of hard work, disappointment and loneliness. He told me the dark circles and darker years would be eradicated overnight. Part of the appeal of cosmetic surgery, you see, is you believe you will get not just a fresh face, but a fresh start.

     

    So, the face lift was performed. I woke to blood seeping from both ears (where incisions are made these days, to avoid scarring), and a pink face the shape of a balloon. I reacted badly to the anaesthetic, and was bilious for days.

     

    Unable to open my mouth, I survived on pineapple juice. I had to wear a face sling, take antibiotics, promise not to fall over, or fly in a plane. I was told to wear factor 50 sunblock, for life. I was so unrecognisable, my dogs barked at me.

     

     

    I went back to the surgeon. After all, what I now needed was maintenance: filler, in the crevices from nose to mouth. Botox, in the forehead, around the eyes, and by the side of the mouth to lift it, so I couldn’t look sad even when I was paying his astronomical bill.

     

    At this point, you think you are now ready for your new life, but you discover nothing else has changed. It isn’t just that your neck and hands no longer match your face, but your old life somehow doesn’t match your new expectations.

     

    And so I tinkered a bit more. I found the men in white coats and the posters on the wall of the surgeon’s office reassuring, after all. With just a few more tweaks — and I’m thinking my lips now need plumping, to avoid having tortoise mouth — I will be happy.

     

     

    I had a double mastectomy aged 29 because I wanted to be as flat-chested as model Yasmin Le Bon. Imagine my self-loathing when I read Angelina Jolie had done the same thing because she wanted to stay alive for her children.

     

    As I know all too well, plastic surgery is not an addiction, it’s an illness. Not a serious one, like a defective gene that will give you cancer. Rather, it’s an infection caught from a society that places female beauty and youth above all else.

     

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