Allie Rowbottom Is No Botox Moralist

“I’m not going to give you an itemized list of what I’ve done,” says Allie Rowbottom, when I, as politely as possible, attempt to ask her about her face — plump and tight and pretty, even in the unforgiving light of the cosmetics section at Saks. “What I will say is that some of what I’ve done has been really empowering. And some of it hasn’t been.” Rowbottom, 36, and I are walking around this heavily perfumed land of charge-card self-actualization — past a golden sign surrounded by white roses and orchids, advertising an upcoming “BOTOX Cosmetics Day” — discussing her new novel, Aesthetica, a tragic tale about clout-chasing your way off a cliff in the Instagram era, and, in a way, trying to find your authentic self again after faking highly filtered, brand-sponsored “authenticity” for so long.