As soon as I entered his office, I could feel the weight of his searching gaze on my face. He was intently gazing at every inch of me, from my hairline to my neck. It was uncomfortable, but I was there for an assignment. So I smiled and greeted him. He showed me to a seat, but still, his eyes continued the thorough examination. Then, satisfied with the dirt he must have found, he sat back and finally responded to my greeting. “I think you need some under-eye fillers and a little bit of botox on your forehead.” At that moment, if I had the money in my account, I just might have gotten out my cheque book and written out one for him before asking, “When do we start?” After all, he was a renowned cosmetic surgeon in Nairobi, and was always in the media extolling the virtues of beauty treatments and creams.
However, I was not there as a patient, which is what he must have mistakenly thought. I was, in fact, there to carry out an interview around an assignment from my editor on the cosmetic industry in Kenya. We would laugh about that confusion a few minutes later, but the thought that at 20 I needed some under-eye fillers stayed with me. And it started a little wave of insecurity within me, which with time and age, I would learn is how the million-dollar beauty industry gets you. I remember running to the mall’s washroom after the session to look at my face, curious as to why he thought I needed the procedures. Heck, at 20, I was a spring chicken and even today, years later, I am not about to let anyone wielding a needle close to my face. However, that might change in 20 years.