Brow Hairs, Dirty Stares

15 Feb

The first time I got my eyebrows waxed was in eighth grade. Picture day was right around the corner, and the caterpillars that had set up shop on my forehead just weren’t going to fly. During my last year of middle school I had the unfortunate and shameful realization that losing a few pounds directly correlated with gaining new friends. Sure I kicked ass during the calligraphy unit in Social Studies, but cruising around with quill pens in my Jansport didn’t exactly scream “raging good time.”

I had slowly begun to realize that personal grooming was a crucial stepping stone on the road to popularity. Naturally, sculpting a new pair of brows was sure to help me expand my social circle. It would not only help to frame my face, but accentuate the eye shadow technique I was currently utilizing; cotton candy flavored Lip Smackers as an eyelid adhesive garnished with excessive amounts of glitter. Looking back, one of my newly acquired frenemies should have told me that this look would have been better suited for my city’s annual pride festival.

My waxing appointment took place at a neighborhood salon that has since mysteriously gone out of business. After approximately seven minutes of pulling, plucking, and trimming, I sat up and voila – two perfectly symmetrical boomerangs were there to greet me in the mirror’s reflection.

I arrived home unknowingly pleased with the results. So far, the only eyebrow shapes I had been exposed to were those of the unibrow, the tadpole, and the McDonald’s arch. In my mind, I was one step closer to landing the cover of J-14; or more realistically, a sweet window seat in the cafeteria, right on the outskirts of cool bitch territory. You know, the kinds of girls who didn’t give a shit if they were late for homeroom, and whose moms already allowed them to wear thong underwear. Glamorous.

I sported my new look for a few days before my Mom finally blurted, “Maybe this was a bad idea.” I knew in her head she was searching for a kind way to tell me that my appearance seemed to be inspired by The Rock, ofSmell what I’m cookin?” fame. To outsiders, my newfound arches seemed to indicate that I was in a perpetual state of “pissed off.” This was, as they say…the first day of the rest of my life.

Fast forward 15 years and not much has changed. Well, except for the fact that The Rock wants to be taken seriously as an actor. I spent the better part of my young-adulthood trying to convince people that, “No, I’m not mad!” And, “Yes, I am capable of laughter!” Classic symptoms of what one might refer to as permanent bitch face. This is a common ailment that typically affects women who forgo a proper consultation with their cosmetologist, and like me, collect nickels for every time someone calls them an Ice Queen.

Overall, I’ve learned that while you don’t always have the luxury of people using adjectives like friendly and approachable to describe you, this look does have some potential benefits!

  1. Permanent bitch face can help you to avoid creeps while you are out trying to groove to Beyoncé with your girlfriends. It’s not that I don’t enjoy meeting new people – but, if you’re anything like me, you know that the only suitable places to meet potential mates include farmers markets, book clubs, and the “Missed Connections” section of Craigslist. Once you look at a prospective suitor with your daggers for eyebrows, he knows that he’d better keep a respectable distance….or that’ll be the last mojito he ever enjoys.
  2. A permanent furrow helps to provide you with relief from workplace stress. I used to spend my summers working at an ice cream shop. You would think that serving tasty frozen treats all day was a pleasant experience. This was not the case. Soccer moms with sun stroke and kids with nut allergies made for some really irritating shifts. Luckily, whenever my face was on the other side of the counter, no one even thought about testing their luck on some cross-contaminated rainbow sprinkles…Not on my watch.
  3. Finally, you’ll never have to bear the responsibility of giving out-of-towners incorrect directions – because they’ll never ask you. I was once shopping in the city with a friend of mine, when a passerby stopped to ask her for help. “Excuse me, I’m here on vacation and was wondering if you could point me in the direction of ‘Little Italy.’” I assume that they didn’t ask me because they somehow foresaw a rude response. Something along the lines of, “Wrong state, Dumbass.”

So ladies, while you might think you have a pleasant demeanor, your face could say otherwise. My proposition is this: All of us bitchy faced people unite, and together we form a tribe. It would be just like one big sorority, minus all the giggles and secret handshakes! My name would probably be “Light Heart, Heavy Brow”…What’s yours?

Unfun Fact: Remember, you’re never fully dressed without a smile your underwear.


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