Shut Up and Wax Me
Garden shears or hot wax
Today I got my eyebrows done. I’ve been blessed with the bushy eyebrows of a deceased Russian novelist. I need weed whackers to tame these bad boys, but ever since my weed whackers rusted, I prefer getting hot wax poured on my face at the salon.
I intentionally make my appointment with the meanest woman there because she’s an eyebrow artist. Because of this, and due to the fact that I have so much raw material, my esthetician can make me look like anyone. I can leave looking like JLO. I can leave resembling Eugene Levy. Only my eyebrows, but still.
However, if I were casting a movie, my esthetician would play the role of asshole with an insecure sidekick. When I’m in her chair, I’m the insecure sidekick. I’ve considered her bitchiness is because she’s a savant who misses social cues, but I doubt it.
She used to intimidate me but only because I hadn't figured out how to get her to be nice to me. I’m a textbook enabler. I’ve tried on every one of my personalities in an effort to please this prickly tweezer.
I even considered getting a spray tan, wondering if I wasn’t spending enough money. Was she kinder to the big spenders? I don’t know, but I decided against it since being orange isn’t what it used to be.
It’s been a year since I got my eyebrows plucked by this tong-armed harpy, and it was time. I pulled my eyebrows back in two separate ponytails, then rolled them into two perfect Princess Leia buns. After that, I hooked my CBD drip up to my medical belt, so I could remain calm while el bitcho gaslighted me.
I started with my usual idiot cheerful banter. “How’s your year been?” I asked as she blowtorched the wax.
“Oh, nothing changed for me,” she said singeing me jubilantly. “While y’all were hiding in your houses, I was working. I’ve been here since January.” Not really a conversation starter.
“What are your plans later?” she asked, posing the mandatory question for people touching you above the neck.
“I haven’t had plans in a year,” I said, realizing I was occupying the Debbie Downer Zone as a defense mechanism, hoping my fragility would function as armor. “What about you?”
“Working late. This is my tough day. I work all the time. I don’t get home till like 5:30.” That didn't sound particularly late to me.
“Wow, that’s really late,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “They couldn’t keep this place open without me.” The sign said they were open until 9. I wonder how they survived.
I pressed my CBD button drip which functions like a morphine drip, but it’s less intense. It’s like getting a shoulder rub when you’re thinking of punching someone in the face. I felt a calm wash over me.
“So,” I said. “You probably got your vaccine pretty early since you have to be so close to people’s faces.”
“I can’t talk about that,” she snapped. Suddenly, her face reminded me of a COVID pinata, stuffed with virus candy.
I also felt like I was having dirty sex with someone who I’d neglected to ask if they'd been tested for anything, but it was too inconvenient to stop. I was already there.
“But I thought estheticians were sort of like the first responders of the beauty industry,” I said meekly, wondering how fast I could jump in the shower when I got home.
“It’s not my job to tell you about my health care,” she said, yanking the tweezer hard enough to pull out tiny chunks of my brain matter.
“I was just asking,” I said, recalling my role as meek sidekick, “because I was jealous you got to get vaccinated before me.”
“Did I?” She said. “Anyway, it’s not my job to tell you whether my staff or myself is vaccinated. That’s politics and I’m not getting involved in politics.”
I sadly walked past my eyebrow pile on my way out thinking my throat was feeling sort of itchy. I pressed my CBD button several more times, making it almost as effective as morphine. Upon reflection, I realized she seemed like the sort of gal Trump would appeal to and I wondered if she had a connection to hydroxychloroquine.