I’m probably one of the few women alive that had never been waxed before. Until today. Except maybe that time I tried that fake-wax goop that was sold on late-night infomercials way back when. You know, which ended up causing massive bruising because it wasn’t hot enough, or maybe I didn’t pull it fast enough. I literally looked like I’d been beaten the crap out of the next morning, all bruised, ugly, and still hairy. Argh! So, if you can call that experience “being waxed” then okay, I’ve ventured there before. (You really didn’t believe me when I told you I’d never gotten anything but a hairstyle done at a spa before, huh?)
But this time, it wasn’t any novice (ahem, cheapskate me) attempting some fake-wax fad product, it was a professional doing it to me. I was in pro hands, now. I was already in getting my hair cut, rockin’ the uni-brow because I’d lost my awesome tweezers and was too busy mourning the loss to realize the sasquatch patch I had above my eyes. The hairstylist took pity on me. She figured, I was already blowing a gazillion dollars in her salon anyway, why not spend another $10 and have a pro do it?
(And by that I mean, I begged, practically on my knees, for her to take the hair off my eyes. Who the hell cares about a cute, new hairdo when you’re eyebrow hair is too busy snarling at you?)
She took me back into this room that had what looked like a torture chair with a dentist-esque table next to it. I was suddenly panicky, it was a small side room with no windows or anything, made of solid bricks or cement. I formulated this was to shield other customers from the screams of having hair ripped out with flaming hot wax? {Gulp}
She popped open this vat-O’-hot-goo and slathered some on a Q-tip, and applied it to my increasingly thick eyebrow mop O’ hair, clamping down on some sheet of something, then QUICKRIPOMGWAIT but it didn’t hurt. And she did it a few more times, then took out her tweezers to fix a couple stubborn hairs (oh, do I ever know, girl). She wiped and rubbed some magic something-or-other on me, and now I not only have cute pink-skinned eyebrows, they’re neat, tidy, and smooth as a baby’s butt. I’m serious. I can’t top petting my eyebrow skin. (What? Stop looking at me like that.)
How the hell have I not discovered this whole “waxing” phenomenon sooner? Five freaking minutes, and my eyebrows are done, no arching my back into contorted, back-aching ways to tweeze and sneeze and pinch myself with pokey-tweezers that took forever and a day and never looked this good. Oh my goodness, best damn $10 I’ve spent on myself in a long while. Well, with the exception of my new hair cut. And if you ask me nicely, or offer me chocolate, I might show you a picture of it. Ahem.
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