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Liz Jones – Fat Transfer to the hands

Research by beauty firm No7 showed one in eight of us is more worried about our hands betraying our age than our faces.

I wish I could say this marketing gumpf wasn’t true, but I’m afraid it is. While we have long since learned to use moisturiser and sunscreen on our faces and decolletage, most of us don’t bother with our hands.

But — and here’s the thing — I have always looked after my hands. I have never cooked (too many ugly scars from burns and nicks), washed up (I own a dishwasher), gardened or sunbathed. Even in my 20s I was protecting my hands with face cream.

I’ve massaged cuticle oil around each half moon every night and have never used polish on my nails, believing it will desiccate them and turn them yellow.

I’ve slept in Bliss softening socks and Bliss softening gloves, which make it very hard to turn the pages of a novel or keep a husband — but who needs  culture or a game of footsie when you can have baby soft paws?

Over the past decade, I have had my  brown age spots zapped with a laser at the private Lister Hospital opposite Battersea Park in South  London. A giant machine targets the speckles, resulting in a worrying smell of burning, followed by crusting, leaving a creamy dot instead. But, like damp in a basement, the brown smudges soon return.

And now, in my 50s, I’ve started to notice my face and my hands just don’t match. This, of course, is entirely my own doing.

I had a facelift and blepharoplasty (removal of eye-bags) in March 2011, followed by filler injected every eight months to keep it all tip top.

And so now, while my face is fairly plump and cheerful-looking (Botox ensures my mouth no longer droops like Dame Edna Everage’s sidekick, Madge), my hands belong to quite another person.

I worry, too, that I’ve inherited my mum’s arthritis, a disease that ravaged her joints and turned her hands into avian claws, the pain etched in her face.

Just the other day, I was washing my hands and I looked up to remove a hair from my face. I jumped, thinking I was being mugged by a little old lady.

A recent photo of me holding a puppy also made me dismayed: my hands were so bony it was as though I was not just dead, but had been dug up from a bog.

My hands resemble a song thrush: brown upper parts, a cream under-part and obvious dark spots. Something, I realise, has to be done if I am to avoid following Madonna, who goes out in public these days in bright purple fingerless gloves.

And so I go to meet Dr Dennis Wolf, a member of the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh and the British College of Aesthetic Medicine, at his consulting room at The Private Clinic in Harley Street.

A dapper South African, Dr Wolf is one of the few British-based surgeons to be trained in Vaser high-definition fat extraction (a high-tech, non- invasive form of liposuction).

He has used fat transfer to augment breasts, buttocks and faces, the  British woman’s favourite places for plumping, which are fast being caught up by our wish to rejuvenate our hands.

I place mine on his desk, as though he is a soothsayer About Laser Hair Removal for Women to read my palm. ‘Hmm,’ he says, turning them gently. ‘The veins are pronounced, the skin is crepey and, yes, you do appear to have lost a lot of volume.’ But the good news is that he can save me.

He tells me he will harvest fat from elsewhere in my body, which will then be spun at high speed to purify it, so it can be injected into my hands via tiny incisions at the top of the wrists.