I’m 27 and 5ft 9in tall, weigh 9st 5lb and have a BMI of 19.8 (the recommended healthy BMI is between 18.5 and 25). I’m also, according to professional advice, an ideal candidate for liposuction and Botox.

Last year, 690,000 people in Britain had plastic surgery. For many, it is now seen as no more morally questionable, socially embarrassing or medically risky than popping out for a new head of highlights. Worryingly, there is also an increasing number of women under 30 visiting surgeons for “a little fine-tuning” – in real terms, major surgery.

I know that Botox is more effective as a preventative measure if started at a young age, and that liposuction is best for slimmer people with small fat deposits. But does that make them appropriate treatments for women such as me? Is it really sane for a slim 27-year-old to resort to surgery when, in fact, she could just get down to the gym?

I wanted to know what it felt like to seek cosmetic surgery and to figure out at what point someone who had never seriously considered it might be tempted to go for it. I visited three of London’s busiest clinics, asking for Botox on my forehead and lipo on my legs and waist.

I am reasonably confident about the way I look and, while there are parts of me that I am less keen on (posing for this picture was not my idea of fun), none of them was anything I’d ever dreamt of resorting to surgery for. My experiences in these clinics started to change all that.

As the law stands today, no cosmetic doctor is obliged to stop you altering yourself, however much you may not look as though you need to. The British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons told me: “The responsibility [for whether or not to go ahead] lies squarely on the patient’s shoulders when it comes to elective surgery.” As I was to find out, it’s advice you’d do well to remember if you find yourself in the consulting room.

Transform Cosmetic Surgery Group
55 New Cavendish Street, W1; www.transforminglives.co.uk

After some time spent sitting in a waiting room, watching a video of previous patients’ operations (gory details; beaming post-op smiles), my first stop is a nonsurgical consultation with a frown-free woman, at which I’m recommended Botox for my forehead.

“The line at the moment is still superficial,” I’m told. “Now is a good time to start the Botox, because if you leave it longer, the line will get deeper and you will eventually need a filler.” She also suggests Restylane, to fill the creases between my nose and mouth, and plump up my lips. A nurse will be available to do it all four days later; it will take only an hour. I’m advised to book in soon.

I’m then ushered up to a surgical patient co-ordinator – the person you meet before being referred to the surgeon. Within seconds, we’re discussing the “problem” with my stomach and legs, and moments later I’m standing in my knickers, prodding at the bits that just won’t budge. She agrees that lipo is the best option, runs through the details of the operation and aftercare – a few days off work, some swelling, six weeks of wearing control pants – then sends me down to see the surgeon, Mr Khan.

Soon he, too, has me down to my knickers. Scrutinising your body in the privacy of your own bathroom is bad enough. Standing in front of a full-length mirror with your trousers around your ankles, your T-shirt hoicked up over your bra and a strange man grabbing at your fat makes me feel, well, fat.

He is willing to operate on my stomach, inner thighs and flank, explaining: “You can get some fat out from here, but the skin is not going to tighten up – the muscle there is bulgy.”

As he turns me to the side to show me in the mirror what I would look like post-op, I ask if he thinks I would see a difference. “In your case, it’s fine-tuning, but you will see a difference, yes.” The consultation lasts just four minutes. After another quick spell back upstairs, to run through possible dates (he can fit me in 11 days later) and prices (£3,950), I leave feeling shell-shocked.

Had I wanted to, I could have booked in and been under the knife in fewer than two weeks.

Harley Medical Group
6 Harley Street, W1; www.harleymedical.co.uk

Women were streaming through the doors of the Harley Medical Group clinic both times I went – many of them greeting the staff like long-lost friends. One lady in the hallway was being congratulated in a particularly loud voice on her new nose.

The girl assigned to look after me has a cheery tone that makes me feel like we’re discussing EastEnders, rather than reconstructive surgery. She tells me I’m an ideal candidate for lipoplasty – “Lipo is for people like you and me: fit, with a good BMI, who’ve just got these little pockets” – and is positively gushing about the procedure, going so far as to describe the hospital as “smashing – no sick people”.

However, because the amount of fat I want removed is minimal (“We’re talking millimetres”) she insists that I meet a surgeon before scheduling an operation. At last, some caution, I think to myself.

Mr Allen Rezai is reticent about treating me – he won’t touch my legs, because there isn’t enough fat there. But he is prepared to perform lipoplasty on my stomach, recommending that I have it done in a couple of areas so that they all remain in “harmony”. He advises me to try exercise and dieting first, but admits that it can be ineffective at obliterating localised fat deposits.

As I leave, it’s all beginning to feel less like a journalistic assignment and more like a test of my sense of self. The endless stripping and scrutinising is making me consider my body in a way I have never done before: as something changeable, and in need of alteration.

Make Yourself Amazing
Sardinia House, 52 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, WC2; www.mya.co.uk

The waiting room of the Make Yourself Amazing clinic is covered in images of Naomi, from Channel 4’s Shipwrecked, and her brand-new boobs. Here, too, the staff are artificially wide-eyed, with friendly smiles. Again, I see a co-ordinator first.

We discuss Botox, and she tells me: “There are some who are starting in their early twenties. I don’t really see the point of starting so early, but 27 is a good age to start.”

When it comes to discussing the surgical procedures, I begin to undress, and am enormously relieved when she says that I don’t have to. She tells me I’m tiny, but agrees that “we women” do have those problem areas that are hard to get rid of.

Before examining me, the surgeon, Mr Chantarasak, wants to know how long I have been wanting this surgery, why I feel I need it and what else I have done to try to lose weight. At last, I’m having to answer real questions about why I’m here.

After the examination, he says that the only place he can operate is my stomach – and, with just a minimal difference to make, he doesn’t deem it worthwhile. He doesn’t refuse to take my case, but highly recommends that I try exercising first. He is also the first person who asks me to revisit my expectations, explaining that the fat I insist I need removing from my side is what many would call “womanly curves”, and that the kind of flat tummy I’m after is unrealistic.

“If you came along and said, ‘Right, I’m very clear about that’, and you still wanted to go ahead, then that’s fine. But if you’re saying, ‘Well, I really want a flatter tummy’, but you’re not quite sure [you’ll get it], then I would say it’s best not to go ahead,” he tells me. “Only athletes have a totally flat stomach.”

When I leave, I feel confused. I’m relieved to have been told that I don’t need large amounts of fat removed, but I’m almost annoyed that he’s tried to talk me out of it. A small part of me has started to feel as though I do need surgery – or, at least, that I want it.

The aftermath

Each time I was picked apart in front of a mirror was another blow to my self-esteem. As my attitude towards my body worsened, I caught myself thinking that a small nip and tuck might not be quite so extreme after all.

What if I had been suffering a real confidence crisis, or had a distorted image of my body? I’m quite sure that if I walked into a consulting room in that state, thinking about surgery, I’d walk out wanting it.

People wanting surgery are always going to be able to get it – if the first person says no, someone, somewhere, will say yes. But the point is not whether or not we can get it, but whether or not we should. At some point along this perfection-obsessed road, the relationship between realistic effort and physical gain has become skewed – to the point where major surgery for minor tweaking is a realistic option.

Those who end up going under the knife should know what to expect, should have tried every alternative, and should only, as a last resort, opt for cosmetic surgery. And, as far as I’m concerned, a size10 27-year-old who has spent just four minutes in a room with a surgeon shouldn’t be one of them.

The sensible way to approach surgery

— Make sure your surgeon is registered with the General Medical Council – www.gmc-uk.org

— Check that they have done further studies in plastic surgery by looking for “FRCS Plast” after their name

— Seek a practitioner who is also a member of either the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons or the British Association of Plastic, Reconstructive and Aesthetic Surgeons. Visit www.baaps.org.uk and www.bapras.org.uk

— Ask the clinic to put you in touch with patients who have undergone a similar procedure with your surgeon

— Visit at least two surgeons before you commit

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