I love my eyebrows with a voracity that I assume most people reserve for family members or small children. After all, it’s not like my family follows me around all day complimenting my face shape. They require much more maintenance than a bi-monthly $20 clean up fee and rarely surprise me with their ability to act exactly the way I want them to. When considering what each contender has to offer, the obvious recipient of my affection is clear. My brows = my heart. UNTIL YESTERDAY. WHEN SOMEONE WAXED AND TRIMMED AND PLUCKED THEM DOWN TO NEAR-NOTHINGNESS.
I should have known. I’ve scoffed at and scrolled past every article in my newsfeed directed towards victims of 90’s-induced over-plucking. I work in the beauty industry! EVERYONE in the beauty industry cautions their fellow beauty-industrians (and the general public) to enter any waxing situation with trepidation.
But I got cocky. Usually, the waxing technician can sense my skepticism (that, or she’s able to sense that I have poor control over my reflexes and could easily punch her during our session. Or maybe I tend to eat extra-garlicky pizza on days I get my brows waxed, hoping to will the waxer into releasing me from her clutches as soon as possible, leaving her less time to fuck up my pride and joy. WHATEVER THE CASE, THE TENSION IS USUALLY PALPABLE). This time was different. I practically danced into the studio, making idle chitchat with my cousin in reception and over-eagerly greeting my waxer.
Quickly, I remembered my role. “I like to keep them thick,” I cautioned. “Just be sure to follow the shape please.”
“Oh yeah, just a clean up!” she offered, before she got scissor-happy.
“Shit, there’s a lot of trimming going on up there,” I thought to myself, breaking into a sweat. But trimming is driving force behind my brow-waxing exploits. I can pluck properly, but without a good trim I go from Cara Delevingne to Nutty Professor (yes, I look exactly like Cara Delevingne). So I sat in silence, as she asked me about my weekend plans (none) and talked about her inability to save money (same).
With horror, I looked into the mirror. My eyebrows looked as thin as they did in the eighth grade when I plucked them into oblivion out of pure defiance (my mom wouldn’t let me dye them blonde to match my new highlights. She’s a real crusader, sparing me from an orange-tinged existence, as I also wasn’t allowed to use Sun-In).
If you’d like to pay your respects, please take a scroll through my Instagram feed, where you’ll find my formerly bold brows prominently on display in my selfie collection. But don’t ask for any #likesforlikes. This is about me, not about you. For now, I remain in mourning. Updates to come.