Dr Maryam Zamani holds a phial of blood up to her window overlooking Sloane Street. โ€˜Itโ€™s beautiful, isnโ€™t it?โ€™ she says. The blood has separated like a B52 cocktail after being โ€˜centrifugedโ€™, but I suppose itโ€™s beautiful yes, in this blessed SW1 light. Itโ€™s being used for a โ€˜medical-grade facialโ€™, the details of which I am given in a medical-grade lecture by Dr Zamani, a surgeon, and the kind of person who assumes everyone understands words like โ€˜telangiectasiaโ€™ (thatโ€™s dilatation of the capillaries to you and me).

We are in her office at the Cadogan Clinic in Knightsbridge and sheโ€™s wearing heels with her lab coat, a Patek Philippe watch and delicate sparkling jewellery. Her hair is in a neat pony, her skin polished stone. She looks years shy of 42 and Iโ€™m not surprised that her clientele includes celebrities such as Lily Allen, or that she holidays in St Barts with Wendi Deng, or that thereโ€™s a secret entrance to her office. If Ian Fleming or Roger Vadim imagined a female cosmetic doctor โ€” she would be it.

Iโ€™m here because Dr Zamani (an oculoplastics โ€” eye โ€” surgeon โ€˜with an interest in aesthetic medicineโ€™) is one of a new generation of cosmetic doctors. Dubbed the โ€˜Super Dermsโ€™, they are all united by the desire to rehabilitate the reputation of an industry seen as money-grabbing and misogynist. โ€˜Today we are less worried about wrinkles than quality of skin,โ€™ she says, โ€˜and health.โ€™

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