I traveled to Malaysia and had cosmetic surgery. Here’s how it went.

This is an article I never imagined writing. Because it’s about something I never imagined doing.

My husband Brent and I recently went to Penang, Malaysia, and I had cosmetic work done on my face. To be more specific, I had fillers and Botox injected into me.

Writing that last sentence felt very weird. Because until recently, I would’ve sworn I was the last person in the world to do something like this.

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It completely contradicts — contradicted — my self-image.

But I’m 59 years old, and a few years ago, I started noticing pretty dramatic changes to my appearance. Deep creases appeared on either side of my face. The one on my left reached almost all the way down to my chin. More lines scored my cheeks, and the bags and wrinkles under my eyes looked like they belonged to someone in their late 60s, not their late 50s.

Was it related to the sun exposure from my time living in Australia? My years as a flight attendant? My long-time insomnia? Whatever the cause, I began doing something I’d never done before.

I started hating looking at myself in the mirror.

Washing my face or brushing my teeth became exercises in staring at myself and feeling morose. Or averting my eyes so I didn’t look too closely. I confess, sometimes I even pulled my skin back, wishing I could still look more like I used to.

Brent told me I didn’t have anything to worry about, that I still looked great, but after the sixteen zillionth time I told him how bad I felt, he said, “Well, when we’re in Asia, why don’t you do something about it?”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“If it will make you feel better,” he said, “then yes.”

That was nice to hear, but I wasn’t really on board with getting “work” done on my face. Why?

Because this just isn’t me.

But I decided to explore my options at least.

I told myself I wasn’t like those aging Hollywood actresses whose faces I often noticed, either because they looked too good — clearly, they had a good surgeon! — or I was appalled by what they’d done to themselves — that’s so sad they felt the need to do that!

And I definitely wasn’t like those desperate, looks-obsessed, middle-aged gay guys who refuse to leave the party circuit.

I’ve never lamented growing older. My life has only gotten better as the years have gone by. Turning 30, 40, and even 50 didn’t trouble me at all.

In other words, my reasons for maybe having cosmetic work were different — better than all of the other vain, superficial people who had work done.

I was intrigued by something called Fraxel, or “fractional laser treatment.” The post-procedure pictures looked pretty scary — a fair bit of bloody red skin, followed by a great deal of scabbing. But the skin usually healed within seven days, and there was a definite improvement in most photos.

Once in Penang, I set up a consultation with a doctor.

She took one look at my face and said, “Sorry, Fraxel will not solve your problem. Your issue is that you have a long, narrow face. And with age, you’ve lost much of the volume under your skin. That is why you have those creases and your skin is sagging so much.”

“What would you recommend?” I asked.

“Juvéderm,” she said. “It’s an injectable filler that goes under the skin on your face. It replaces the volume you’ve lost. And some Botox.”

Which is almost certainly going to make me look like a clown.

“How much does it cost?” I asked.

“You’ll probably need two injections on each side of your face,” she said, quickly adding up some numbers. “And with the Botox, it will be about $1400 American.”

This is much cheaper than it would be back in America, but it was still more than I expected. This was more than I should spend on my face, right?

On the ride home, Brent said, “I think you should do it.”

“What?” I said, frankly shocked. He handles our money, and he’s been known to count pennies.

“We can afford it,” he said. “Especially if you think it will make you feel better.”

I have to say, it’s nice to find out your husband doesn’t put a price tag on your happiness — even if that price tag is $1400.

But I still wasn’t sold. There were too many reasons not to do it: the money, the risk of looking strange, and the fact that it was only temporary, lasting up to a year or so. And especially because…

This! Just! Isn’t! Me!

Then, a new worry occurred to me: What would people think? Would our friends think less of me? I hated the idea of people discussing it behind my back, judging me, surprised by how vain I was.

And why wouldn’t they? I’d done plenty of that judging myself.

“But I think we should research it more first,” said Brent. “Make sure this procedure is as safe as the doctor says. And get a second opinion. Also, another place might do it for less.”

I liked that idea a lot. Frankly, I still hoped it would finally give me a clear reason not to do it.

BECAUSE THIS JUST ISN’T ME.

I got that second opinion. The cost was the same, but I had a little less confidence in the second doctor.

I surprised myself by making an appointment for the procedure the following week.

I can’t believe I’m really going through with this!

Suddenly, it was four o’clock, and we were at the clinic. I filled out the paperwork and was led upstairs into a room where the procedure would be done. It was as close as I’ve ever come to an out-of-body experience.

Once the “before” photos were taken, the doctor came in and used a pen to make marks on my face to indicate where the injections would take place.

Then she did it, and it was more intense than I expected.

The next day, despite the blotchiness, I immediately noticed a huge improvement in my appearance. My face was fuller, the skin less saggy, and I had fewer wrinkles. I definitely looked younger—not young, but the way I felt like I should look.

The minor redness and swelling disappeared within a week, and I thought I looked even better. Not ten years younger than my actual age, but a better-looking me.

My face still has wrinkles and creases. I don’t look “amazing” for my age. Now I think I look my age.

More than anything, I wanted to feel better about myself — and I do. Frankly, I can’t believe how much better it’s made me feel.

It’s not just my face that’s changed. I had to admit I’d been wrong the entire time about this not being me.

Clearly, it was me. I just didn’t want to admit it.

It’s changed how I view other people’s choices, too. They’re none of my business. My choices—and my reasons for making them—are no more or less valid than anyone else’s.

Wow, I was judgmental before. That was me.

But life has a way of humbling you. I’m less judgmental these days. I like this version of myself much better in every sense. That’s the best change of all.

This is me — the me I want to be.

Michael Jensen is a screenwriter, author, and half of a couple of traveling gay digital nomads. Subscribe to their free travel newsletter here.