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Here, in the first of our two-part series on cosmetic surgery, author and comedy writer Carole Hayman reveals the reasons behind her decision to change her appearance and records the operation on her face and her recovery.

It seems impossible to go a day without hearing about some celebrity who has had plastic surgery. Over recent weeks, we've been treated to the horror of Leslie Ash's lip job and the beauty of Natasha Richardson's new nose. With more and more British people now following the stars' lead, TV is also getting in on the act.

Facelift Diaries is the latest reality show being beamed into our homes. Every week viewers follow women from when they first decide on cosmetic surgery through to the unveiling of their new face.

But how do people come to believe they will be better off altering the face they were born with? Do they really gain more confidence and self-esteem or lose a part of themselves in the process?

It's amazing how fashionable it has become to confess to cosmetic surgery. It's in your face. Literally. Stars are coming out of the closet to chat about their boob jobs, bottom waxes, liposucked love-handles - and that's just the men.

Then there's the Botox babes - holding hen parties during which they inject their wrinkles.

Until recently, I was one of those who loved the revelations but secretly thought cosmetic surgery was weird, taboo and strictly for women receiving serious alimony payments. But there's only so long I could take watching Father Time stomping all over my face without taking some sort of action.

My Decision

Last year I was at my lowest ebb - feeling depressed and irrelevant. This was largely because my work was not going well but it had a consequence on my health and well-being overall.

I found myself wishing I looked younger and more desirable - more the age that I felt, as they say. Many women over 40 feel the same - consigned to the sexual scrap-heap. Who can blame me for wanting to look young, vibrant and still up for proud thong-bearing?

It was at this point that I met a young woman who had recently been to a cosmetic surgery clinic. I was introduced to her at the House of Commons - makes you wonder how many MPs have had a little nip and tuck, doesn't it? John Major? Did Edwina finally persuade him to get those Y-fronts amputated?

It was then that I decided to make an appointment to at least find out whether just a few nips and tucks would help my old face.

My First Appointment

I see cosmetic surgeon Mr Anthony Erian at the Cambridge Private Hospital, New Wimpole, Cambridgeshire. He's reassuringly handsome. I asked him who did his surgery. "So far, God," he replied. Not sure I want to put my face in the hands of someone who, so far, hasn't practised what he preaches.

Mr Erian has many celebrity clients, though the most he will give away is that they are very "high maintenance". He does tell the story of a Norma Desmond type (from Sunset Boulevard), who arrived swathed from head to toe and issued draconian secrecy instructions.

Even poor Mr Erian was to come in by the back door. When he did, he found the paparazzi round the front, vigorously snapping the shrouded star. They'd been tipped off by her own PR company.

Whatever the celebrity demands, he remains very wary of what he terms cosmetic junkies. He says that facial surgery is "like cooking - If you have too many ingredients, it tastes bad". Hm. We've all seen those pictures... I ask him about the dramatic upsurge in the numbers of people having surgery.

"The Internet has exploded a lot of myths," he explains. "Plus, unlike in its secretive past, most glossy magazines openly carry adverts." Cosmetic surgery is now as available as a haircut and since the emphasis in our culture is so much on youth and beauty everyone wants it.

According to Mr Erian, the main reason, though, is that people are living longer. Fifty is the new 30 so, naturally (or unnaturally) 50 year olds want to look 30. The most popular treatment for wannabe women is chins. For men, it's eyebags but for both sexes full facelifts are increasingly normal.

He is, however, firm on one point. "Surgery can't cure depression, sexual problems, low self-esteem or bad boyfriends." True to his word, he turns away about 50 per cent of those who want it for what he calls the "wrong reason". What, I ask, is the right reason? "Vanity," he says, without hesitation.

That's fine. I have that in spades.