BEAUTY—however imagined—is in the eye of the beholder. But why settle for nature’s whim when you can pay a professional? The mirrors in Fredric Brandt’s clinics showed the possibilities, and the profits, to be gained from the skilful application of needle and syringe. The masterpieces of modern art on the walls highlighted his aesthetic tastes, just as his handiwork on his patients’ faces displayed his craftsmanship.

Only the charlatans he despised would claim to stop ageing. What he could offer was a partial respite: why look tired, sad or angry when the lips can turn up, not down, and wrinkles can be smoothed into temporary oblivion? It took only a few minutes (for he could see 40 patients a day) twice a year, and a few hundred dollars each time.

That was at least twice the price charged by some other doctors (though discounts were available for the indigent or famous). But money was only part of the mix. Getting a personal appointment at his clinic was a social triumph: like having a prime table at a sought-after restaurant. And celebrity status without science would be useless. He treasured his academic prowess: conference speeches and papers, and an in-house laboratory that carried out clinical trials on potions and lotions, as well as researching exciting new laser, ultrasound and stem cell treatments.

It was a big change from the dermatological drudgery he encountered as a young doctor. In those days skin medicine meant dealing with sunspots, moles and unsightly infections. Botulinum toxin was known chiefly as a deadly nerve poison: it took Dr Brandt to make it a household name, for in minute doses it is a boon, freezing the muscles that furrow and crinkle. His clinics were the world’s largest buyer of Botox; he called it simply “bo”.

Bo and the gels could work wonders. They smoothed foreheads, filled cheeks, tightened necks, strengthened jawlines and plumped lips—all in moderation, for the aim was to look “fabulous, not frozen”. But the really secret serum, he insisted, was joy. His clients should not just look better, but feel it too. As he jabbed and pumped, he would sing Broadway numbers, particularly “Younger Than Springtime”.

He liked to call himself a sculptor of faces. But he did not cut or chisel. That was the work of the plastic surgeons who had pioneered beauty treatment, sawing away outsize noses and tightening withered skin over unforgiving cheekbones, via a general anaesthetic, scars and bruising. He did not criticise his sawbones colleagues, but he thought his own countenance showed that the needle worked better than the knife. Visitors sceptical of his strangely smooth skin would be invited to check behind his ears for the telltale signs of a facelift.

Some thought his strange appearance exemplified the cost of battling the years. His pneumatic features and eerie complexion could seem repellent: an alien doctor from a visiting starship, perhaps. Others thought his wispy blond hair and fair skin might be a sign of Scandinavian roots. He laughed at that: he was a Jewish orphan whose parents had run a confectionery shop in Newark; his appearance was a triumph, just like his career.

Critics muttered that the “Skincare Svengali”, (as Vogue dubbed him, appreciatively), was engaged in a nightmarish science project, making a fortune from human weakness. Better, surely to grow old gracefully and naturally. But his patients saw it differently. They wanted to feel better about themselves, to remember the people they had been—and to stay competetive in a society that prizes only youthful beauty. Laurin Sydney, a television journalist, said he helped her extend her career 18 years after her “sell-by date”. Madonna told the New York Times: “If I have nice skin, I owe a lot to him.”

The “Baron of Botox” had a weekly radio show, and a range of cosmetic products, whose catchy names (Needles No More, Crease Release) were matched by exotic prices and carefully worded claims about their effects. He wrote two well-received books: “Age-less: The Definitive Guide to Botox, Collagen, Lasers, Peels, and Other Solutions for Flawless Skin”—launched in a New York nightclub where guests were told to wear only white to match the bookjacket—and “10 Minutes/10 Years: Your Definitive Guide to a Beautiful and Youthful Appearance”.

Timor senescentis

Irony and the beauty business rarely mix easily. But Dr Brandt tried not to take himself too seriously. “If it moves, my patients want it frozen; if it deflates, they want it filled up; and if it droops, they want it lifted,” he once quipped. Appreciative clients said a session at his clinic could fix your laughter lines—or give you more.

But he was mortified when an episode of a new comedy show lampooned a deranged, pretentious and Botox-loving beauty doctor—seemingly a direct caricature of him. Friends denied that this prompted his suicide; he had suffered from depression for some time.

Dr Brandt did not like discussing his great adversary: age—and the frailty and loneliness it brought—frightened him. He lived alone, with three adopted stray dogs in Miami, and his collection of modern art in New York, sheltered by permanently drawn curtains from the sunlight he hated for the damage it did to skin.