The Thread That Wouldn't Stay Hidden
It started as a quiet rebellion of the body—a tiny bump on the tip of my nose, innocent as a pimple. But it was painful. Swollen. And then, a bead of pus. What I didn't know yet was that this was the first whisper of a long, agonizing conversation between my skin and the threads I had trusted to reshape my face.
My nose had known change before. In February 2020, while living in Belfast, I had nose fillers from a reputable clinic. That procedure felt like a gift that kept giving—lasting more than two years, leaving me happy and confident. But then, a new promise arrived through TikTok and Facebook: the Haiko nose thread lift. A non-invasive, instant upgrade. A quick procedure with dramatic results. I was intrigued, then swept up by its online popularity. I needed little convincing.
When I went to the Philippines for a short holiday in November 2022, I decided: this is the moment. I knew the person who would do the procedure. I trusted the clinic—it had a good reputation. I did not research the complications. There was a promo: 14,000 pesos (a good deal). The procedure itself used 14 PCL threads—10 for the bridge, 4 for the tip. It was quick. The result was instant. I looked pretty. My family was surprised—I hadn't told them because I didn't want judgment or someone to stop me.
I returned to the UK a week later. The wound healed well. I had been on antibiotics for a chest infection, which inadvertently helped. I thought everything would be fine. Two weeks seemed enough for recovery, as I had been told. I resumed my life: working as a nurse, doing high-intensity workouts, lifting weights (nothing heavy, maybe 5 kilos), and sleeping with my face pressed into the pillow—the prone position I loved.
Then January 2023 arrived, and with it, the bump. It looked like a pimple, but it hurt. And it swelled. Then pus came out from that bump. I was terrified. The entry points of the thread lift had healed, but my body had not fully recovered. My active lifestyle had aggravated what was now a complication. The only person who could help—the one who had done the procedure—was in the Philippines. She could give advice, but the only definitive solution was extraction, and that was not possible from across the world.
I messaged her. I researched on my own. I went to a doctor in the UK, straight to the hospital, because I was paranoid. But they saw no fever, no extreme swelling. They did not believe it was infected. They sent me home without antibiotics. I was anxious. I was left with only my own knowledge and her guidance.
By February 27, I had two visible bumps on my nose. More pus. More redness. More swelling. I went to A&E, and this time I exaggerated enough to get a one-week course of antibiotics. The infection improved temporarily, but the bumps kept coming. Every time I pressed my nose, pus appeared. And then, one day while massaging my nose, a tiny clear thread emerged. That was the first of many extrusions.
The process became a cycle. A bump forms. I open it—sometimes guided by my friend, sometimes with a sterile needle I used myself (I am a nurse; I understood sterility). Fluid drains. A thread comes out. The skin closes. Then another bump appears. It happened again in March, again in April. After a hot shower, larger threads would slide out. I would massage my nose, and the body would reject what it no longer wanted. I counted them: three threads in early April, then two more, then three at once. By April 12, the skin closed again, and I thought—finally, it is over.
But on April 23, a new bump emerged. I pricked it again. A thread came out. Five days later, the skin closed. At the time of this telling, my nose shows only a minimal scar. No makeup, just powder and lipstick. No more redness, no swelling, no pain. But I can still feel threads underneath, and I have chosen to ignore them, to get on with my life. I have returned to my exercises. I tell myself: if the threads will come out, they will come out. There is nothing more I can do.
I saved most of the threads that came out—a collection in a small box. They are clear, thin, and some are quite long. They tell the story of a rejection that took months, that brought headaches, pain, and a loss of confidence. I stopped making videos. I covered my nose with plasters or face masks. I avoided conversations. But now, healed, I share this not to blame anyone—not the clinic, not the person who did the procedure—but to create awareness. Before you decide to undergo a Haiko nose thread lift, know this: the aftercare matters more than you think. Your body's response is not something a two-week recovery period can guarantee. And if you face complications, you may find yourself alone, trying to understand what is happening to your own face, with minimal help and expensive consultations. I was a nurse. I had guidance. But I was also in the dark, terrified, and wishing I had seen a video like this before I went under the needle.
This is not a story to deter you from every procedure. It is a story to remind you: research the complications. Ask about rejections. Know what can go wrong. And never underestimate how long your body truly takes to heal—or how loudly it can say no to something it refuses to keep.