I have been looking for a place to get my eyebrows waxed now that I am back in Bloomington. That combined with my friend Alicia Lynn’s blog post mentioning her eyebrows caused me to recall a specific eyebrow adventure of mine. What follows is an account of that very eyebrow adventure.
Self inflicted pain was never a forte of mine.
I was a big sissy.
I couldn’t even pluck my eyebrows.
I shaved them.
With a pink Lady Bic.
Now in my defense, I figured it would work for the following extremely logical reason: my Grandmother constantly carried a Lady Bic in her purse, even hid away a couple in the glove compartment of the Maroon Lebaron she and my Grandfather drove. She did this so that at any given time, situation or place, she could easily remove her lady stache.
This caused me to not only shave my eyebrows, but also my lady stache, from the 7th grade on. It seemed practical and functional. Like a lawnmower cutting the grass or vacuuming the carpet, it was extremely satisfying to see the instant results.
Only a few times did I actually lather up with some Skintimate Raspberry Rain shave gel on my lady stache. To be truthful it burnt quite a bit with added things so I preferred (who are we kidding, prefer) dry face shaving as it also exfoliates a layer of dead skin cells quite easily.
Once I started in on the eyebrows as well as the lady stache things got a little “hairy” (pun highly intended).
|This is how I felt about not having luxurious eyebrows.
As a 6ft tall 120 pounder during the summer between 7th and 8th grade, with a Louise Brooks bob and bangs that while highly stylish in the fashion world, were not intentional, just “practical”, not much was needed to draw attention to my person. Add in the dark circles under my eyes genetics and allergies had kindly thrown me, plus pale skin and dark hair and I looked more like a Bosnian refugee than the blonde bomshell I was on the inside.
So what makes the most sense for a girl like me to do?
Shave off her eyebrows.
I didn’t start out with that goal in mind. A mix between Elizabeth Taylor and Cleopatra (really the same thing since my visual was from Elizabeth Taylor AS Cleopatra) was my desired result.
|what junior high girl doesn’t want to look like this?
I was perched on all fours on the formica bathroom countertop staring intently into the mirror, pink Lady Bic in my hand, and I was convinced that a life changing moment was about to take place.
This would be what would catapult me from not being asked out by anyone to being asked out by everyone. I didn’t need boobs. I didn’t need calf definition. I didn’t need clothes from Abercrombie & Fitch ( I had 5 different outfits total that I rotated each week. I thought that if I didn’t wear the same thing on Friday and then Monday that no one would notice. . .) I didn’t even need blonde hair. (What would have served me well was the knowledge that all I needed to say was “Yes you can feel me up even though there is nothing there to feel.” and I would have had them).
I knew that the key to winning any of the tall boys hearts was defined Elizabeth Tayloresque eyebrows!
I triumphantly began:
a little off on the left one,
a little off on the right,
a little more off on the right.
Wait. . .are they even?
I need to do a little more,
wait, wait, wait. . .
oh, oh, oh, oh, OH MY GOD!
The right one was gone.
Well two eyebrow hairs remained. The early hints of my extremist behavior emerged as my twelve year old self thought “Oh what the hell! (I probably felt very cool for thinking a swear word). I can draw on my Cleopatra eyebrows and no one will be the wiser.”
So I shaved off the left one as well.
Oddly enough I don’t remember my mothers reaction. Maybe she felt self loathing since she herself used a lady bic for her lady stache and the generational curse had seeped its pink plastic flower fangs upon me.
I spent hours in the bathroom that summer. Trying the Cleopartra brow, the skinny tattooed brow, the lipstick brow, the eyeshadow brow, the lipsmackers brow, the stickers brow. You name it, I put it where my eyebrows had been.
My friends were as gracious as one can be expected to be when you are forced to walk around with Jr. High Meredith PLUS painted on eyebrows.
Taunting me in front of the neighborhood boys as we ran rambunctiously around the Pleasant Hills subdivision (right behind College Hills mall, now the illustrious Shoppes at College Hills), my friend Laura simply said:
“Do you guys notice anything different about Meredith?”
These were the same boys that were friends with me I believe for the sheer fact that they felt guilty for calling me Lurch the majority of my 7th
grade year when I would take my lunch tray up.
They had their chance, they had ammo they could have obliterated me with in a single blow.
Instead Simon just said “I don’t know, is your hair different?”
To which I said:
“No silly, I have no eyebrows! These are painted on!”
Yes, as a good Christian girl, I knew honesty was good, but maybe in Jr. High God gives us grace about it not being “the best policy”. I guess I hadn’t developed my theology of grace yet.
I told them I had plucked them as I knew to reveal the women of my families secret of the lady bic was right next to denying God, or beasteality.
By the grace of God almighty, my eyebrows grew back.
Every now and then in the bathroom a disposable plastic razor will taunt me.
It will speak in a women’s voice with a French accent “Sink of zee power you could hold een your hand” One minute I could look in the mirror with a full set (albeit not that thick due to that summer) set of eyebrows on my face and the next they could be gone. In a matter of mere seconds.
But I resist the urge, pick up the razor, and destroy the lady stache that I just noticed on my upper lip. And as I smile in the mirror stache free I pray to God I have the willpower to make it to my eyebrow waxing appointment. And my husband, who I do let feel me up, does as well.