I waltzed into my eyebrow wax appointment this afternoon in a particularly chipper mood - not only because I was early and would be able to enjoy a dizzying selection of European fashion magazines at my leisure; but because there’s nothing quite like the feeling of hot wax sizzling against the delicate eye area to get a girl fired up on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday afternoon.
Trouble in paradise appeared around 5:41 P.M., when my waxer (who shall remain anonymous, as shall the spa) - noticed my eyelashes were coated in navy blue mascara.
“Ooh, love your mascara, hun,” she commented, Tweezerman in her left hand and magnifying mirror in her right hand. “What kind is it?”
(FYI: aestheticians and certain elderly types are the only people allowed to call me “hun.”)
“Well,” I began, delving into an explanation of my gig as a beauty provocateur and the ensuing deviation from my standard DiorShow in Black Out towards the lash path less traveled as research, of sorts, for an upcoming product review.
“Oh, I could totally do that,” she replied. “I’m all about makeup.”
I nodded and told her I appreciated the support, then closed my eyes, determined to enjoy five minutes of peace and quiet in the darkened room before heading back into the chaos of Newbury Street.
My waxer was inquisitive. ”So, like, how do you do that?” she asked as I squinted my eyes open. “Like, how do they know to send products to, like, you, and not, like, me?”
“Uh, well,” I answered sheepishly, “they Google me. I guess.” I tightly closed my eyes and began to faintly hum the soundtrack to the Sound of Music to signal that it was time to get on with the show. Salon chit chat, while occasionally appreciated and often a good source of local gossip, was beginning to grate on my nerves.
My waxer, with apparent intent to destroy my solace, continued her babble about how much she “just loves” makeup and stopped mid-wax to pull out a tube of generic mascara she got “two-for-one” at Rite-Aid the way a grandmother would show off photos of her grandchildren stuffed into her wallet. Since a good eyebrow waxer is especially hard to come by - need I remind anyone of the Dellaria Massacre of 2001? - I kept my mouth closed and prayed she would finish already. Kind of like getting stuck with a guy who ‘just wants to hold you,’ when all you want is to practice bedroom acrobatics.
“So, seriously, Kristin. Next time they need someone to review stuff, I’m your girl!”
Kristin? Kristin?! I had just slapped my Visa on the counter to pay for $30 plus tip worth of perfection, but felt like slapping this “girl” - whom I’ve been seeing exclusively for brow services over the past two years - silly.
If all’s fair in love and war, what are the rules for a perfect arch?