Lately, consuming the celebrity content my algorithm knows I cannot walk past, I feel a creeping sense of dread. Cosmetic interventions are, according to TikTok arbiters of upcoming beauty trends, entering what’s been christened “the undetectable era”. Demi Moore, Cher and Lindsay Lohan – all once poster-girls for highly detectable work – now sport much more recognisably human faces, still perfectly plump and unlined, but erased of the Uncanny Valley effect created by over-zealous deployment of fillers, toxins, and scalpels.

This is terrible news for any woman over 40 who has ever caught a glimpse of her reflection in the car window, and thought “I don’t love what’s happening here, but I’m going to dedicate my spare time to reading an anthology of Rilke poetry instead of researching how to transfer fat from my arse to my face.”

In just the same way, Ozempic has obliterated, almost overnight, the hard-won gains of the body positivity movement. No one needs to learn to be comfortable in a bigger body now that a relatively simple solution to the bigger body is on offer.

As I’ve always understood it, there’s a price to pay for both ageing naturally and submitting to cosmetic modifications. Ageing naturally requires significant reserves of stoicism, as your face – once a smooth, clear expanse of undeveloped pastures – is carved up into a densely lined urban map.

Going the route of needles, fillers and surgeries, on the other hand, ensures each new line is no more than a temporary irritation-crude graffiti on the walls of the Parthenon. It also means wearing a face that bears the unmistakable evidence of tampering: Botox and fillers have produced a slew of women who look like they were conceived using the same batch of donor sperm. If you’ve ever watched a Real Housewife unleash a molten torrent of invective at a fellow cast mate while her face remains a frozen, immutable mask, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

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My choice to age naturally – not so much a choice, but a slow-dawning awareness that I’d chosen this path – was primarily due to my aesthetic beef with the Kardashifaction of faces, coupled with financial constraints and a prickly resentment at the idea that I should be ashamed of my own waning adorableness, and throw every available resource at maintaining it. Of course, this doesn’t preclude me from engaging in a few minutes of light negging in front of the bathroom mirror most mornings – a sort of mindfulness exercise for the self-deprecating – during which I dolefully note the deepening valleys of my nasolabial folds, the overnight appearance of a new cluster of crow’s feet, and a certain dulling of the complexion, like the contents of an ashtray blew across my face while I slept.

As I swamp my face with snail mucin (called mucin to persuade you that it’s not mucus, which it is), I remind myself why I have chosen not to try to halt the ageing process. At least my face is able to register consternation at its own reflection, I tell myself. You don’t like it when you can’t tell what people are really thinking because of the Botox. Remember? I whisper, as I white-knuckle the lid off my Vitamin C serum.

The decision to age naturally was easy when the alternative was to look like the 6th Kardashian sister: I was principled and defiant in the face of ludicrous beauty standards and would age like Brigitte Bardot: dramatically, unapologetically, and with a clowder of cats at my feet.