The Brow Bar

The Brow Bar

Beauty maintenance has never been my strong point. I don’t own a flat iron. Sometimes, I forget to moisturize. I wear make up about 3 days a week and when I do manage it, the scene is reminiscent of the classic moment when a five year old boy discovers his mother’s make up case for the first time. I wipe off more make up than actually ends up on my face, and even then I either look like a community theater stage actor or the matronly farmer.

But I draw the line at Bert and Ernie eyebrows. Two months without touching my eyebrows begins showcasing my Slavic heritage in an unflattering light, which, granted, is easy to do.  So this morning I decided it was time to swallow my pride and head to the department store where they have a reliable team of eyebrow tamers from various exotic lands, such as Russia or Los Angeles.  I gave up trying to do it myself years ago. I don’t have the talent, patience or confidence in myself to tweeze away every last stubborn follicle that invades my facial landscape. Waxing is faster, cleaner and absolves me of any responsibility for crooked brows. If I happen to walk away looking permanently surprised, at least I can say “Oh, those awful amateurs at the eyebrow place butchered my poor face!” indignantly.

The mall is pregnant with signs of not only the dominance of the human race, but the dominance of marketing over the human race.  In a flood of images of skinnier, prettier, happier, richer, cooler models selling me the products that will help create my own perfect life and body, I swim timidly through the shark infested waters of human progress to my destination. I stop occasionally to look at the ceiling for air.  I arrive at the makeup counter.  My would-be waxist is touching up another woman, someone I would not guess gets her brows waxed if I saw her in the street. T-shirt. Ratty pony tail. Good, I think, I am not the only outsider in the building today.

Anxiety sets in nonetheless. I told my husband I put eyeliner on this morning because I felt like it, but it was really to save these girls from pitying me. Tsk, Tsk, I can hear them thinking, she can’t even put any eye makeup on.  Then they would try to sell me new eyeliner, enthusiastically convincing me that I would be beautiful if only I owned that particular slim pencil.  It was at least some armor against the onslaught of commission based cosmetic counter girls.  But it does little to keep my shame away when I see a poster for the “Date in a Box” that literally promises a man-hunting look that will guarantee a boyfriend.  I dash off for a minute to look at the petroleum based polyester clothing made for 15 cents apiece and then sold on “discount” for 50 dollars or more.  I think about Pierre Cardin, the first major designer to license his name and sell clothing to department stores.  I wonder why clothing is so important. Then I wonder if I can wear that dress with my leggings and whether or not I want to wait until it goes on sale.

Back at the brow bar, a quiet young lady with perfect mod-style eye brows makes a barely concealed look of disgust at me before she politely asks “How long has it been?”

“Long enough,” I reply jovially, with a thin layer of resentment. I sit through the pain, make polite awkward dentist office conversation, then pay the Eastern Block woman wearing 6 inch stilettos and a tight black skirt. Full of self loathing, I finally look into the mirror.

My God. My eyebrows looks fantastic.