That Was My Face

I realize that most of my blogs lately are all about my emotional health, physical health, and just general well-being. That kind of reading can get old after awhile, both boring to read and to write…so I’m more than delighted to bring back some old school funky cold levity.

This story has been milling around my mind for the past two days, but I’ve just not had an opportunity to sit down and pound it out. Well, to be honest, I had time yesterday, but no energy. This evening, one diet Sundrop later (it doesn’t have sugar so I can drink it even though diet drinks are normally quite repulsive) I find my house semi-clean, most of the laundry put away, except the pile sitting beside me, and the children in bed (though I do hear the girls giggling and clapping). Whatever. They’re mostly quiet and not yelling, so I’ll leave them be for the present.

This story begins a few weeks ago. You know my main point of vanity – the eyebrows. I keep a very watchful eye on those pups. As soon as they begin to sprout beyond what my tweezers can control, or begin to cultivate back into a uni, it’s time to mow the wiry weeds back into some semblance of shape and order. Well, as I was scrutinizing the eyebrows in the mirror, my gaze caught a glimpse of dark fuzz above my upper lip. I asked Jeff, who happened to be ironing in the next room, if he ever noticed my upper lip. His answer, “oh yeah, ever since we got married.”

Oh.

So, I’ve defended my lip against the persistent waxers for no reason?

Hmph. That got me to thinking. I want to be attractive to my husband, right? I mean, he’s a guy, I’m a girl. Obviously, he’s attracted to me. But, I had a small moment of worry. Why hadn’t he ever said anything about my ‘stache’ before? And why does it seem darker than before? Is it my medicine? Normally, when I sit out in the sun, it bleaches…but I’ve got a fairly decent tan already and that dark fuzz is REALLY dark fuzz.

Monday morning dawned. I went to counseling and then on my way home decided to stop by my nail salon, which, ironically, I’ve never had my nails done.

As soon as I walk in, I hear “you want your eyebrows done?” Umm, yes. Either I’m that memorable or my eyebrows are, probably, I thought with a sigh, the latter. Remember, this is the same lady who asked me where I was from and then said I looked Russian.
She motioned me back to the little room and onto the table whose cover looked even more dingy than the last time I went. I almost hated to lay down, but I hadn’t showered yet for the day, so I knew I could go home and scrub scrub scrub.

As I lay myself down, mentally cringing and staying very still since I was wearing shorts and a tank top and I didn’t really want my skin to touch the sheet, my lady walked in.

I said, “can you go ahead and wax my upper lip while you’re at it? My husband noticed it.”

And she gloated. “I tol’ you, I tol’ you, your guy don’t like it.”

I did not quite remember her ever saying that to me, but occasionally we encounter barriers in the English language where we don’t understand one another, but nod in agreement anyway. I figured this had to be one of the times.

I’m really hardened to the pain of the eyebrows being torn out of their follicles by that hot inflexible wax. Not so much the lip.

She had me laughing over her mother’s day experience (at least, I think it was supposed to be a funny story), and so I was hardly prepared for the scalding glob of wax she smeared across my upper lip. Admittedly, I had second thoughts, but it was much too late. She tore that strip off my lip like an unwanted piece of tape on a window pane. My eyes smarted and immediately started streaming tears.

My body was in shock over the pain of that very sensitive area, and it throbbed like nobody’s business. Contemplating the utter scandal of the torture, I barely noticed that she had moved down to the right side of my face, near the corner of my lip. Once it finally registered, she’d already ripped that part of my face off and I gave myself over to the tears wondering in numb astonishment if I could possibly have hair growing out of the side of my mouth. Crumbs from breakfast maybe, but hair?

This whole time she was talking, but I really don’t think it was English, or maybe I just didn’t have the capacity to focus as diligently as I had previously. Then she began cackling with glee and what she said was very English.

“You crying, you crying.” Hee hee hee. Now she’s laughing at me.

Then she’s off to the left side of my face, painting and ripping away like unwanted wallpaper.

Seriously?

My face was throbbing and swelling and pulsating, and it did not escape my notice that the pain she left in her aggressive wake was entirely in the shape of a handlebar mustache. Great. Just great.

Then she went after my chin, which miraculously, didn’t hurt, but of course, how would I know since the rest of my lower face was on fire!

I wanted to yell, “Lady, I don’t have a goatee. Give me a break!” But, of course, I didn’t.

And then she inched nearer and nearer to my lips themselves. MY LIPS?!?! You’ve got to be kidding me. Oh, she wasn’t. She snatched off any atom of being, dead or alive, as she exfoliated my precious little lips, and yes, the tears kept flowing.

She finished up, wiped off the remaining pieces of wax, and as I stumbled my way to the front of the store to pay, my nose breath kept knocking something against my lips. A stray piece of wax that resembled a spinning web in the making was blowing in my own personal wind.

That wasn’t the worst part. My face was still throbbing in that strange handlebar shape, and of course, when you get parts waxed, they turn BRIGHT FIRE-ENGINE RED. So, I walked out sporting a bright red mutton chop.

To make matters worse, Jeff called and asked me to run by Taco Bell to pick up something for lunch. I complied, but was too busy bemoaning my fate to think it could be a mistake.

I pulled through the drive-through and when I got to the window, the lady who never talks (and I recognized her by her mouthful of gold teeth) took one look at me and said “You’re looking good today.”

I nearly choked, but managed to pull myself together long enough to state the UN-obvious. “Thank you. I just got my eyebrows waxed.”

She just raised hers in return and handed me the food.

You think my story ends there, but it doesn’t. You may not remember this, but I have very sensitive skin. Everything breaks me out. This “upper lip” wax that turned out to be a face wax was no exception.

Yesterday, I started itching, and though I tried not to scratch, my nimble fingers could not help discovering a curiously shaped line of tiny red bumps all along where my skin had been so rudely molested . My chin withstanding the assault, the handle bar shape was, and still remains, a patch of itchy break out.

I pulled out my washcloth and my stockpile of armaments … my Mary Kay products. I scrubbed and scrubbed until my face was nearly raw, but I woke up this morning and there was no change. Not like I can put make-up on over it because knowing my skin, that would only further serve to irritate my face.

Sigh. Welcome to my world. That’s what I get for being vain. It’ll be my just desserts should the hair grow back thicker and darker than before my beauty attempt.