I got my first invitation to a Botox party last month. A guerilla, invite-only gathering with a list of procedures, including menu items like underarm Botox for $350 (a purported sweat eliminator) or the full facial works for $450. I had a fleeting consideration of shelling out the cash just for the fun of it. Apart from its ‘favours’ at the centre, it would be like any other party and promised an element of a ‘sisterhood’ camaraderie (this particular party was targeted at women only), alongside the share of muscle-paralysers.
From midwestern Med Spas to the apartments of cool Brooklynites, Botox parties have proliferated in the age of social media. Usually spread by word-of-mouth, they’re sold as a win-win scenario for both the injector and injected: it’s often cheaper than going to a clinic, and it can serve as a lucrative side income for independent suppliers and for small businesses looking to reach new clientele outside of regular hours.
Fran, 28, has been in the New York Botox party circuit for the better part of a year, after indulging an urge to delve into the world of “preventative” Botox. “The lore is that if you do Botox when you’re younger, you won’t develop wrinkles [in the same way] later in life,” says Fran [it’s important to note that this claim is very polarising and has been denied by many dermatologists and aesthetic doctors]. Through a friend of a friend, Fran was added to a Botox party group chat with 20 other 20-somethings – the capped age was 32 – organised by a host who’s connected to the administerer. For this particular operation, their “Botox queen” is a Spanish-speaking, Miami-based registered nurse, whose work doing local house calls evolved into becoming a travelling bespoke Botox injector.
“It’s super underground,” said Fran. “We Zelle her the money, and with really thin insulin needles, she’ll look at your face and tell you what you ‘need.’” Each woman gets a personalised assessment during the process which creates a deeply intimate echo chamber. “It definitely normalises [getting Botox],” says Fran. “But it is also a support group – the group chat isn’t only active when it’s time for the party, people also send each other messages like, ‘Oh my god, my face looks amazing,’ or, ‘This lip flip is crazy, I’m having a hard time eating my soup.’ There’s a community aspect to it.”
The combined community and capitalism of the direct-sales party is a formula pioneered by companies like Tupperware. In the post-war, mid-century era, Tupperware parties brought together housewives of the suburban sprawl and gave them a sense of camaraderie and reason to gather – all while helping Tupperware become a multi-billion dollar company. In the capitalistic spirit of entrepreneurship, the parties vitally offered women a way to earn their own income independent of their husbands, but it also paradoxically kept them in their gilded cage through its upholding of homemaking values and the woman’s role being in the kitchen. These days, food storage containers have been swapped for muscle-paralysers, but while the wares being sold are different, it can sometimes feel like these parties are offering the current generation the same – if not more – dubious form of “self-empowerment” within a broken patriarchal system.
Madison, 28, attends Botox parties for its accessible price point, sense of sisterhood and because, she says, it feels like a way for her to ”affirm” her femininity. “It’s fun to all get shot up in the face with botulinum. It’s bonding for women to be able to do that, and it’s beyond just women… it extends to femme culture in general,” says Madison. “One of my friends that goes is trans, and for her getting Botox is really exciting. It’s beautiful when you get the results you’re looking for.”
The party atmosphere can make you forget the risks that come with injecting toxins into your face, particularly in an unregulated environment with unknown sources of the distributed drug.
Of course, there’s nothing inherently feminine about not allowing our bodies to age naturally. However, as cosmetic procedures become an increasingly expected, even demanded, part of being a modern woman, it’s unsurprising that the concept of femininity has become intertwined with undergoing injectables to achieve repressive beauty standards. The parties themselves are even designed to evoke a sense of girlhood camaraderie through their slumber party atmosphere. “A lot of these Botox parties occur in the evening, so it’s popular to have a sleepover where people come in themed pyjamas,” Dr Samantha Ellison, a physician-slash-botox-party-plug, told Business Insider last year. “Hosts have provided pizza, charcuterie boards, or just desserts. Other clients have thrown ice-cream parties.”
This party atmosphere can make you forget the risks that come with injecting toxins into your face, particularly in an unregulated environment with unknown sources of the distributed drug, and many health providers advise against participating in any capacity. Dr Michele Green, M.D., a board-certified cosmetic dermatologist based in New York, has reservations about the practice. Citing a “higher risk of infection and poor cosmetic results,” she began receiving clients unhappy with their Botox party transformations following an uptick in the trend over the past few years. “One patient who came into the office had attended a Botox party and learned afterward that the injector used a ‘black market’ product for the injections,” says Dr Green.
@missmimiwebb Replying to @Eve | Licensed Esthetician ♬ original sound – Mimi
In an effort to ensure safety at these kinds of events, people like Cassie Lane are trying to educate people. A nurse practitioner, anaesthetist and co-founder of the Botox training business, Injectables EDU, Lane facilitates parties centred around a premium “patient-provider experience” while educating peers on how to do the same. The aesthetics industry is fairly lawless, but Lane’s approach to Botox parties is very buttoned up: she only uses FDA-approved neurotoxins, has patients sign consent forms, and presents a crash course powerpoint to all clients. Unlike other parties, she doesn’t offer discounts, and even advises against it.
As long as contemporary beauty standards dictate that women must appear forever young and wrinkle-free, Botox parties will remain a popular method for receiving injectables and finding community with like-minded people. However, much like Tupperware parties, the intimate connection that blossoms in the Botox party space has roots in something deeply patriarchal and capitalist. At its core is a shared struggle toward “self-improvement”, which has become a seemingly impossible undertaking as the standards rise to otherworldly echelons. There will always be another wrinkle to address, a new age bracket to fear, a new item on the menu to try. It’s something that Madison has been pondering recently. “As I sit here and think about it, I’m like, ‘Who am I getting Botox for? Myself or others?’ That is kind of a philosophical question for me,” she says.
Fran has also been grappling with love and hate for the parities. While on the one hand, she finds them a way to access “that Sex and the City-esque community” that is becoming increasingly hard to get in our lonely, isolated times, she also finds it hard to reconcile the pressures women are under to fit a certain standard. “It’s okay to do whatever the fuck I want with my body, but why do I have to strive to look so young and so not my age?”
