Botox, that injectable elixir of youth, got a big boost in April when the F.D.A. approved its use in minimizing the appearance of glabellar lines — those between-the-brows furrows we used to think deepened with life's wisdom but now know are caused by the contraction of your corrugator or procerus muscles. The F.D.A.'s blessing made 2002 the year of the Botox party — that sui generis clinical setting where your hostess serves smoked salmon to a few choice guests in need of wrinkle zapping and your doctor brings the syringes, giving new meaning to doing shots at happy hour.

The Botox party quickly went public, with weekend spa packages at Vegas casinos and radio hosts treating the first 10 lucky callers to gratis injections at the mall. Happy Botoxers are plastering the Internet with party photos for all to see, like "Jeff and Anna's Botox party at the Lobster Ranch with Dr. George Toledo." There's Dr. George, giving Jeff one right between the eyes, and Anna dabbing him with cotton gauze, and finally a group shot of 10 partiers, all beaming. The Botox party began as a way to save money — botulinum toxin type A has a short shelf life, and buying it in bulk cuts costs for each user — but it has become much more.
—Rand Richards Cooper, "Botox Parties," The New York Times, December 15, 2002

When the doorbell rings, silence descends upon the room. The doctor has arrived. There is a real sense of excitement and anticipation as Dr Mike Cummins — or Dr Mike as he has become known on the fashionable Botox circuit — is led in by Ella.

Dr Mike is not a disappointment. A handsome, six-foot, blue-eyed man in his mid-thirties, attired in an elegant and sombre suit, Dr Mike certainly looks the part and could easily have walked straight out of an episode of ER.

He gives his "regulars" a kiss and is introduced to the virgins. The husband grumpily stays seated.

Dr Mike is an experienced hand in the world of Botox who has made his reputation predominantly on the back of results — the image is a bonus. He gathers the girls together and gives them his pep talk. Suddenly everything is very serious and you could hear a pin drop as he explains the details of the different procedures. He then retires to the kitchen to prepare for treatment.

"God, he's a real-life George Clooney?" gasps Lucy.

The husband, who has not smiled since the arrival of Dr Mike, has had enough. "Right that's it, I've got some phone calls to make," he says, as he disappears up the stairs, Ella whispers to the girls, "If you can't stand the heat ... " That was the last time the husband was seen at the botox party.

As Dr Mike creates a homemade surgery in the kitchen, positioning his lights and syringes, I ask him how these informal Botox party plans began.

"Word of mouth really. A lot of my clients in Notting Hill and Chelsea are friends. One of them asked if I would mind doing a group of them together one night. It evolved like that. The host sets the evening up and in return gets the treatments at half price."
—Alasdair Flind, "It's Botox party night: Tupperware for the cosmetic generation," The Evening Standard (London), February 13, 2001