Case of the Mis-Matched Brow

3 Dec

Raised voices alerted me to the throng of workers encircled about. I opened my eyes to find them peering intently back at me–their concern-flooded-faces plainly stating what their foreign words wouldn’t: Something was wrong. I creased and wrinkled the objects of their fascination, visibly discomforted by all of the unwanted attention.

One worker, noticing my expression, with a strained smile forced the word “pretty” from her lips.

Her act offered little comfort. Sweat beaded at the top of my forehead as I wondered anxiously what all of the hoopla was about.

Waxing my eyebrows is my lone bi-weekly indulgence—if ripping hair from one’s skin can be considered luxurious. The nail shop I patronize is located across the street from my home. I always rush over without appointment. I’ve never had a preferred stylist. I simply let whoever was free at the time hook me up. I mean, it wasn’t rocket science. And I have never left dissatisfied.

This evening in particular, my sister accompanied me. I dropped her off and parked the car to ensure that she arrived at her appointment promptly. By the time I had entered, she was well into a conversation with another waiting client.

I left those two chatting away in the front and followed a free stylist  back. Just as I reached the chair, my sister nervously flagged me down. Annoyed and confused, I reluctantly trotted back towards her.

She cautioned me to wait for the next available person.

For, according to her newfound friend, the lady that was seconds away from my plucking my brows was horrible.

I quickly waved off their concerns. She had done me before. And everything turned out fine.  I stubbornly waltzed back to where the stylist awaited.

As I sank into the chair, doubts began to rise. Were they right? Should I had waited? I knew that within minutes, the judgment would be clearly displayed across my face. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. Remain calm. Don’t panic.

That’s when my thoughts were interrupted by a discordinant symphony of foreign babble.  And when I found the crowd of women surrounding me.

After what felt like an eternity, I was finally handed a mirror.

I spotted it instantly.  My left eyebrow was thick, misshaped and altogether wrong. I slowly rose from the chair and begin to pull and tease and beg the hair to make the difference less notable. The stylist waited nervously to my side.

I didn’t yell. Or demand a re-do. Instead, I handed her the money and head out the door.

For my eyebrows—they’ll grow back. But my trust of that woman and shop?  Gone forever.

Or so I vowed as I marched out of the door.  But once back within my home, without strange eyes following my every move, I really looked.

And saw that my eyebrows weren’t so bad.  They were certainly better than the wild, boisterous things I  entered with.

The moral of this story: Listen when someone warns you not to use a stylist. And if you don’t, be prepared to live with the consequences.



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