I’ve been ping-ponging the decision for months whether or not to get my eyebrows threaded. Half of me really didn’t want to because I’ve done it once before and it felt like someone was lighting a match by striking it against my eyebrow hair. The other half of me was egged on by my mother (who loves pointing out my excessive hair) and Man Friend (who called my eyebrows “interesting”, which we all know is code for “horrifying”). After staring in the mirror one fateful Friday and seeing this reflection:
…I decided to make an appointment at a threading salon.
On the way there, I felt as if I was heading to my execution and took some steps to calm myself down. First, I imagined Coach Taylor, taking a knee, waxing some inspirational mantra along the lines of “Clear eyes, full hearts, thin eyebrows.” Then I queued up a podcast on my phone so I could listen to it and hopefully distract myself from the pain. Desperately, I hoped it would either be super busy in the salon and no one would pay attention to me, or I would be the only patron so strangers couldn’t watch my humiliation. The worst would be a small handful of people waiting for their turn who have nothing to do but sit around and watch me cry with static-y pop music mocking me in the background. Which, of course, is exactly how it turned out.
I wish I could say it didn’t hurt at all and I didn’t cry and my body didn’t spasm every time the thread came for me and my podcast successfully distracted me. Alas, twas not the case. Not to mention my pain and embarrassment were heightened by the threader lady smirking at me every time she ripped out some hairs. After what felt like years in Hell I was finally released to look at my reddening eyebrows in the mirror. I didn’t see any difference. How can it be possible that she spent twenty minutes delivering excruciating pain to my face and yet I couldn’t tell the difference?! Okay, maybe there was a slight difference. I guess my eyebrows went from the picture above to this:
I HATE that women are expected to look a certain way and do certain things, especially because I think I’m mentally too weak to return every week (my hair grows back so fast you’d think I’m taking Rogaine). After getting home and attempting to forget the traumas from earlier, I gave myself an impassioned speech about how women shouldn’t conform to society’s beauty standards and if I fucking wanted to avoid weekly pain and keep my hairy eyebrows then I deserved to look like Sam the Eagle and not be looked at weird! One week later I noticed some hair growing back around my eyebrows and immediately made another appointment at the salon. One day, I will stop caring. Until then, I will embrace the smirks from the threader lady and weep quietly into my pillow while admiring my Eugene Levy eyebrows.