One of my favorite bloggers, Emily R. at Wheels on the Bus, asked me (after I begged for suggestions of things to talk about BESIDES adult diapers. Which, dude, I don’t know WHY you don’t want to hear about that) if I shaped my eyebrows. Well, Emily, the answer should be fairly apparent soon.
Probably about 5 years ago, I learned via some weird familial conversation that I was, indeed, a teeny-weenie part Italian. Now, this didn’t mean that I immediately ran out to buy one of those horn necklaces or some Italian flags to throw over my rearview mirror. Hell, I didn’t even start peppering my everyday conversation with corny Italian phrases. Apparently, being something like 0.005% Italian doesn’t inspire the same amount of (freakish) pride as someone who is 100%.
I’d always wondered where my dark skin and overall swarthiness (dude. Swarthiness is an underused word. I’m completely planning to bring swarthiness back. Fuck sexy.) came from, considering that the way I understood it, I was something like 80% Swedish and the rest Scottish. Neither of which are really known for being as brown as I am.
I also blame my teeny percentage of Italian-ness for the overabundance of body hair peppering my body.
Now, I’m SWARTHY, not a Sasquatch, so don’t get too ahead of yourself while thinking of my ultimate hotness. I’m also (now) incredibly good with a bottle of Nair and a pair of tweezers, so it might not be as evident if you were to see me on the street (or, perhaps, at BlogHer).
When I was pregnant with Ben, I wasn’t so much concerned with my body hair. There was something about all of the turmoil and unrest of the whole situation that didn’t leave me running for the tweezers, and for the first time in many years, I let my eyebrows–and other *ahem* parts of my body–go au naturale. (that’s “natural” for my non-French speaking readers. I know, I know, I’m so Continental!).
Besides, through a steady diet of Chinese food and Steak -n- Shake, I had turned into quite the oompa loompa, gaining approximately 70 pounds (I stopped looking at the scale at the doctor’s office) on my 5’5″ frame. I just knew I would be breastfeeding all of those pesky pounds away, so I figured when I did that–likely within the first month or so–I’d wax the hell out of myself, and BAM! just like that, I’d be a butterfly emerging from my cocoon of fat and hair!
Go ahead and get your laughter out now. Come on, let it out. I’ll wait.
So yeah. Breast-feeding didn’t exactly work for Ben and I, and he was born with his days and his nights mixed up, and he screamed pretty much 90% of the time he was awake. Needless to say, I didn’t exactly lose that 70 pounds within that first month, nor was I coherent enough to even THINK about going to the salon.
My ever-loving brother, Aaron, came over one weekend with his new girlfriend (now my sister-in-law) to visit my young son, and in the lull between oogling my baby, he looked over at me, sitting there on the couch with toothpicks keeping my eyeballs from slamming shut and began to smirk mightily.
“Stumpy*,” he began to laugh. “What the HELL is going on with your eyebrows?”
Sleep deprivation, after many weeks, makes one incredibly stupid, so I just looked wearily at him, trying to make sense of what he meant by “eyebrows.”
“THEY LOOK LIKE CATERPILLARS SITTING ON THE TOP OF YOUR EYES!” He was in hysterics now, laughing so hard that he began to tear up. He then marched into the bathroom on that floor and grabbed me a pair of tweezers, all the while laughing his ass off.
Still not quite sure what he meant, as I hadn’t even looked in a mirror that day yet, I went into the bathroom and turned on the light. What I saw both shocked and horrified me: apparently, without proper maintenance, the upper half of my face turned into that of Groucho Marx. What worked for Brooke Shields did NOT work for me. Not by a long shot.
And, dammit, he was right. They looked like big, black caterpillars waggling on the top of my eyes.
Which meant that something needed to be done. Now.
I quickly secured a babysitter and practically levitated to the scary nail salon down the street, where approximately 4 pounds of eyebrow hair was removed in a haze of waxy glory. It may have hurt quite a bit, but I honestly don’t remember that. I only remember how much lighter and blissfully freer my forehead felt after that.
Had I known just how stupid I’d look without proper maintenance, unrest or not, I’d have found some time for some personal grooming in there, even if I did closely resemble the Michelin Man. At least my eyebrows would look fantastic.
So spill: what’s one of the dumber things you’ve done in the name (or not) of beauty?
*Stumpy is my nickname. Given to me by my brother, who was amazed that I was so short. Lest you think he’s some kind of giant, let me assure you that he is shorter than my father. Who is 6 feet tall.