Test Case: Double Trouble — I Try Out A Non-Surgical Procedure To Combat The Family Chin

I was intrigued by a new outpatient procedure that purportedly shrinks your double chin with a few injections....

(Stock photo, not one of the author.)

(Stock photo, not one of the author.)

My sister and I are made up of a DNA soup of my parents’ traits. Physically, though, I take after my dad. For example, I’ve got his straight nose, bad knees, and stubby boy hands (my sister, of course, shares my mother’s slender fingers and hand-model nails).

I was also genetically gifted from my dad’s side since birth with the “Voigtsberger chin.” There’s just always been a little extra baggage under there, which likes to say hello in those candid, side-profile shots friends take at parties and post online without prior approval.

As the owner of a Voigtsberger chin, I can say with confidence that, in advanced age, said chin will disappear entirely and my head will eventually just melt into my sternum. (My sister, yet again, was denied this genetic legacy.)

I am pretty okay with myself just the way I am. I have a body that can hike mountains and withstand shopping marathons and actual half-marathons. And I don’t really have a problem with either of my chins—by the time things get really scary in that area, I will be an old lady who doesn’t give a crap and lives in an island cottage with my arthritic yellow Lab (#oldladygoals).

But I was intrigued when my friend told me about a new outpatient procedure that purportedly shrinks your double chin with a few injections of some sort of FDA-approved potion. It sounded absolutely ridiculous. But then I remembered that I write a column in which I do ridiculous things to see what happens. And I am always fascinated by what modern science can cook up next. Plus, once you get to your mid-30s, the idea of some physical part of you improving rather than the other way around sounds pretty appealing.

I waited several months to schedule a consultation, mostly because my friend was having the procedure done and I wanted to make sure the guinea pig survived first. Like a good lawyer, I did do some research: The online literature tried to avoid the phase “double chin,” opting instead to use the term “submental fat,” which seemed like picking the less sexy of two unsexy words. And it referred to one’s “aesthetic goals,” as if any effort was actually being put in other than handing over a credit card to a dermatologist’s front-desk person.

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At my consultation, I was informed that I was the “perfect candidate.” This would have been more exciting news if I was being interviewed for a prestigious law job. But I share my Grandma Peryea’s love of thrift, and I wasn’t about to throw money away on some freakish medical procedure if it wasn’t going to work.

After I booked my first appointment (they said it would take at least two sessions to reach my “aesthetic goals”), I thought seriously about canceling. But then I went on vacation and forgot to call it off before the three-day deadline. My chins and I were locked in.

At my appointment, I was placed into a chair and given an icepack to numb things up. I had been warned in advance about the potential for post-procedure swelling, but right before showtime I was notified that it apparently gets progressively worse as the days progress. (Important side note: I had sprung for expensive tickets for a holiday gala on Friday. Cue new absurd first-world problem.) They also warned about difficulty swallowing, but assured me that the real culprit was simply that your “new” chin was just getting in the way.

At that point I was relatively horrified, but there was no going back, whether or not I looked like a pelican in my red dress that weekend. The dermatologist drew on my face with a purple pen and her assistant put some sort of temporary-tattoo grid on Chin Jr. to assist the dermatologist with knowing where to poke me.

I declined the offer of a stress ball and awaited my fate. The injections themselves didn’t hurt, but the immediate aftermath felt like Chin No. 2 was being attacked from the inside out by a horde of angry, microscopic demons. The procedure was over in a couple of minutes.

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Then the assistant gave me a mirror to show me that my chin was already swelling. I’m not sure why I thought I was special and would have avoided this side effect, but it was a real surprise to have hopped to bullfrog territory so quickly. This was obviously God’s way of smiting me for my vanity.

I went back to the office swaddled in the fluffiest scarf I own. I needed to chat with my law partner about a project, but instead of walking down the hall I hid in my office and emailed him. I planned to lay as low as possible until the whole amphibian thing blew over.

I borrowed two reusable cold-packs from the office-kitchen freezer and cuddled up to them all night. The next morning my chin felt better but looked even worse. Nobody at work said anything, although whenever anyone came into my office I would rest my chin in my hand like I was thoughtfully thinking about what they were saying.

At this point I was over being reclusive. No number of chins was going to hold me back from living my life. After happy hour with girlfriends I popped by my friend Brenna’s and iced my chin with some of those frozen whiskey stones I found in her freezer.

Things were not much better on Friday, but I wore my red dress and additional chin with pride. I did ask the photographer at the gala to take our photo from above to help keep things under wraps, but otherwise I was more focused on the dessert than my appearance.

On Saturday, I participated in a women’s rights march (yep, still bitter about the election) and noticed someone holding a “You are perfect just as you are” sign. It made me feel sheepish: Why would I try to artificially change my appearance for the better when my life was just as good when I temporarily looked worse? This point was driven home later that weekend when I noticed that I had apparently given my chin mild frostbite from overzealous icing.

It’s been a little over a week, and my chin is still not back to where it was before this escapade. I’m not sure if or when I will be scheduling this second treatment. Like the old saying goes, there is never a convenient time to look like a bullfrog.

I don’t know how this whole thing will pan out, but I already learned something from the experience: We are the worst critics of what we perceive as our flaws. Nobody noticed (or at least bothered to say anything) when I was a frostbitten pelican, and if this procedure works out as planned, nobody is probably going to notice that either. We’re all pretty much just who we are, and a few tweaks aren’t really going to change that, even though they might make us feel better about ourselves. So just do what you need to do, embrace who you are, and keep your chin(s) up.


Allison Peryea is a shareholder attorney at Leahy Fjelstad Peryea, a boutique law firm in downtown Seattle that primarily serves community association clients. Her practice focuses on covenant enforcement and dispute resolution. She is a longtime humor writer with a background in journalism and cat ownership. You can reach her by email at Allison.Peryea@leahyps.com.