My Best Feature

Like most women, I’m a master at dissecting my multitude of flaws. Upon first glance, there are no glaring problems with my features, but under the glare of the bathroom lights and the watchful scrutiny of my latest glossies, I’m a mess. My eyes are too close together and not quite large enough; my nose is too round; lips too thin and in need of some collagen pronto. Don’t even get me started on my frizzy mousy hair or my jiggly triceps, and the ravages of having two kids has done things to my torso that shall not be mentioned, ever. I’m knock kneed and short waisted and my arches are flat. You name it, I can critique it. I am the walking embodiment of “average”, which I accept without complaint.

But the one thing that no one has ever faulted me for in my sea of Extreme Makeover horrors, are my eyebrows. I have lovely eyebrows; they are dark enough to not disappear on my face but not so dark it makes my blonde hair look mismatched. They have some magical ability to regulate themselves- I never bothered with them until I was close to 25, and then started picking up tweezers maybe once a month to deal with one or two random outliers. My sister and I argue a lot about who got the best genetic gift- she has huge, icy blue eyes that are unfortunately hidden under a creeping black hedgerow of bushy Bert unibrow unless she takes drastic depilatory measures on a regular basis. In comparison, mine are decidedly dainty and ladylike. They are, without a doubt, My Best Feature.

Last week, I ventured into my local Happy Bee Nail Parlor for my monthly pedicure. It’s always a little intimidating to go in there, to be faced with the tsk tsking as my cuticles are examined by an immaculate woman in skinny jeans, the random giggles of one of the nail technicians that sends all the patrons looking at each other trying to figure out which of us is the source of her mirth. The women in the nail salon are always happy to point out your flaws to you- your raggedy cuticles, your rough heels, all the things they can fix for an extra 5 bucks. But they don’t require an appointment and they do a good job, so I endure it.

The place I go to is always on the lookout for the upsell. They always raise their eyebrows when I decline a manicure- my nails are a lost cause and I don’t even bother with them anymore. Just the toes, ma’am, just the toes. But this last time around, I learned they have added a new service- waxing. I learn this while relaxing in the little massage chair with my outdated copy of People, interrupted by a woman in a white labcoat who cheerily asks me if I want my eyebrows waxed. My feet are soaking; there is nowhere to run. I am captive.

I was clearly appalled. Moi? My eyebrows are perfect. “Do I really need that?” I asked tremulously. “Oh definitely,” she assured me, in one fell swoop taking away my one last vestige of genetic beauty. I was devastated, too demoralized to question it. I sat there like a lifeless lump as the woman applied a coat of wax to my eyeballs, deftly ripping away at my illusion that I had one thing not in need of improvement. It didn’t hurt, at least not physically.

When she was done, she handed me a mirror to showcase what a great job she had done proving that I was indeed a Sasquatch in need of a groom. I took a peek, waiting for the transformation. What peered back at me was a woman with slightly overwaxed brows. They weren’t at the level where one would need, say, heavy application of the eyebrow pencil, but it was pretty clear to me that their natural state was actually quite a bit more aesthetically pleasing. I’ve never been so happy to have had a crappy wax job in my life.

So I sat back to enjoy the rest of my pedicure and begin the long wait for my eyebrows to grow back out. In the meantime, the wax technician had moved on to the woman seated next to me, who testily responded “You did them here TWO DAYS AGO!” to her high pressure sales tactics. There was no hidden camera waiting to catch me in my “DON’T” state, no giggling technicians laughing at my eye shrubbery in the anteroom; I was merely the victim of the snake oil salesman of beauty, trying to shill me into something that, in all certainty, I most definitely did not need. Eyebrow wax will join my mental file of “Stuff I Don’t Need” right along with that $350 an ounce face cream and Paris Hilton brand hair extensions. I, or at least my eyebrows, are fine just the way we are.

jesvet aka “Barbie Brows”