How long, you have probably been asking yourself and your loved ones, will I continue to suffer abuse at the hands of my eyebrow aesthetician? It will not surprise you that I have been asking myself this very question. For maybe three long years.
This particular eyebrow aesthetician, whom I will call Meany McHates-Me-Pants, because she's mean and she mc-hates-me, has a reputation in eyebrow circles as a cruel taskmaster. She's something of a celebrity, which is saying very little (we're talking the eyebrow crowd here) and quite a lot (we're talking about a very serious if frivolously-agonized-over pair of hairstrips that can greatly improve/destroy one's visage). She prides herself on being brusque and taking no guff from the likes of me. The likes of me have been known to commit such capital crimes of tweezing their own brows, going to other perfectly qualified aestheticians whose rates are not on par with a bank loan for a vacation home on the Riviera, or simply just existing. Which is what I have continued to do since last month, when Meany McHMP asked me "Who butchered these????" pointing her scissors accusingly and triumphantly at my poor brows as if just having discovered evidence of a second gunman on the grassy knoll.
Today, however, was beyond the pale. I have been so good for so long. I arrived early, sweaty and all gross from having taken my life in my hands on my bike in traffic, I waited a good five minutes past my appointment time while Meany McHMP leisurely sucked back a bottled cappuccino drink through a straw (somehow this made me feel a little sad for Meany...not even a real Starbux iced latte? A pre-packaged bottled coffee drink?).
My restraint with my brows over the past six weeks, however, did nothing to appease the wrath of Meany. She banged around the treatment room like a Meany in a china shop, she again pointed to the lacunae in my brows, she clucked and tsked and threw me on the table like a (sweaty) ragdoll, and cruelly plucked, waxed, trimmed and tsked her way through what I can only describe as a violent shaping of the brows. Then I paid her for it.
I deeply want eyebrows like Rachel Weisz's.
It should also be noted that this is the same McHates-Me-Pants who then squealed with delight at the news that a wealthy client had forgotten to cancel $500 worth of treatments during the allotted cancellation period and would therefore be putting that $500 in Meany's pocket for no work done. It was, needless to say, a sort of terrifying display of mercenary glee, and it did not--surprise, surprise!--make me feel any more charitable toward her. It made me feel filthy. And I was, as has already been established, already feeling not-so-very-fresh.
I have gone on record as not condoning abuse from people with whom one does business (let me now go on record as being against abuse in any and all forms). I am also not very down with overpaying for beauty treatments, especially when one is on a restricted budget. Yet something keeps me going back to Meany McHates-Me-Pants. I feel a bit like a battered woman. I feel like a kicked puppy who comes humbly back for a snuggle, only to be kicked again. Why do we suffer for beauty? Why do we put up with jackasses like McHMP when there are indeed kind, chatty, sympathetic aestheticians on the planet?