On the Death of the Obvious

A moment of silence, dear reader, for the over-filled lip, which was pronounced dead at the scene sometime this past spring. The mourners are few. The inheritance — a generation of clients now requesting 'whatever she had, but less' — is considerable.

In its place rises the season's true obsession: work that cannot be detected, only suspected. The new compliment is not 'who did your face?' but 'you look wonderful, and I cannot say why.' Practitioners who once traded in volume now trade in whispers of volume — a unit of measurement known only to those with waiting lists.

This author approves. Mystery, after all, is the family business.

And to the reader currently composing a message asking whether this columnist has 'had anything done' — save your ink. A lady never tells, and a masked lady tells even less.