It was the first official day of summer for me. My kids all started camp and I had plans. Big plans. I was going to get my eyebrows waxed.
It had been a while since I last waxed my eyebrows. I started to calculate. But then I ran out of fingers. And toes. All I remembered was that the last time I waxed my brow, I was wearing a winter coat, and my daughter was sitting on my legs as the aesthitician ( the term being a quite a stretch for this establishment) spread hot wax right above my eyes.
Today it was reaching ninety degrees, my daughter was in camp and my winter coat was tucked away in some closet I had no intention of opening for the next four months.
“Manicure pedicure?” a woman asked as I stepped in to the store.
Smiling, I lifted up my oversize sunglasses and pointed to my eyes. Apparently nothing more needed to be said.
“Ah right this way, ” she smiled as she motioned me to the back room.
As I squeezed into the back room – which was made of the same cardboard material as my son’s science fair presentation (and also measured the same in its dimensions) – I hopped onto the table and made myself as comfortable as I possibly could considering I was about to have my hair ripped out from its roots (a rather barbaric practice, in my most humble opinion).
First time?” she then asked.
Was she telling me this was her first time performing this treatment and was I okay with that or was she asking me if this was my first time getting my eyebrows waxed? Either way it did not bode well.
Then I glanced in the mirror hanging precariously on the wall where much to my horror I found Bert -as in Ernie’s type A pigeon and oatmeal loving companion- staring back at me.
Yikes. It was baaaaad. I couldn’t stop looking at the train wreck of a brow I was sporting. Hair was sprouting in places on my forehead head that I didn’t even think had follicles.
“My first time what?” I asked her, hoping that my fake smile belied my true horror at her question/statement and my unibrow situation.
Maybe she was asking if it was indeed my first time in this salon. Except I was just here last week to get my nails done. And I am pretty sure she was the person who did them.
“First time getting your eyebrows waxed,” she smiled so very condescendingly.
Oh no she didn’t.
Yes she did.
A woman in her thirties living in the tri-state area who has never had her eyebrows waxed. Does this beast even exist?
She said it just to be rude. I knew, I could tell.
So I did what any person in my position would do after getting a vicious comment like that…I lay right down on that table and let that witch pour burning wax right over the skin that is meant to keep my eyeballs in their sockets.
Yes. Sadly, that is exactly what I did. Tail between my legs, I bowed my head, so to speak, and let that wretched woman have her way with my face.
As I was lying down contemplating my eyebrow shame I began to wonder why she was taking so long. I knew my eyebrow situation was bad but she was doing a little too much grunting and heaving trying to get those last few stubborn hairs. In fact, she re-waxed some areas twice which I think is a big aesthitcian no-no. However, I was the one in uni brow hell so I felt unwilling to question her methods.
For the next few days my eyebrows felt unusually sensitive – like I was missing a layer of my skin that shields my, blood, cells…skull. But every trip to the mirror assured me that the my skin was still attached to my face, albeit a little pinker than usual – with a few scattered crusty blisters.
Go ahead. Shake your cyber-heads and wag your cyber-fingers at me. I deserve it. I should have high-tailed out of there faster than you can say “ingrown” the moment she uttered those two ominous words: “First time?”
But alas..that gosh darn hindsight.
So in the interest of unwanted hair removal I implore you all to have a little sympathy and consider the lengths we all go to for the sake of vanity. As surely, you too, at some point in time, must have made some questionable decisions in the pursuit of personal grooming.