Wednesday, July 31, 2013
I don't know about you, but one of my least favorite things in.the.world is plucking my eyebrows. In fact, I am ashamed to say that it was not that long ago that I even started doing this tedious task, and it was only after years of my sister APRIL mocking me regularly and acting as though I had no commitment to personal grooming whatsoever. In her defense, when I say I looked like Mia Thermopolis pre-makeover, I'm really not exaggerating.
I've been told we resemble each other (not always in the nicest way.)
So, when I can no longer ignore the bushman (said in Julie Andrew's voice) eyebrows resting on my face, I have to break out the
weed-whacker tweezers and go to it.
And before some forward-thinking person asks, "but Ash dear, why don't you just go get them waxed?" let me introduce you to me and my complete lack of pain tolerance in any form. Childbirth is sure to be a treat.
My Inner Tweezing Monologue:
"Ow. ow. ow. ow. ow. ow."
"How have I let myself go like this?"
(The elusive strand) "If that stupid hair doesn't get out of my head I am going after it with a blowtorch."
"Holy...how is this one so long?"
"Forget shaping... this is a quick mow job, not a lawn manicure."
"Can't I just shave these off?"
"Maybe eyebrows aren't that important."
*Googles this idea. Finds this picture. Trudges on.*
*Moving to the right side
"WHY does this side hurt exponentially worse than the other one?"
"Ow. ow. ow."
"Maybe it hurts worse because it's like a JUNGLE over here... tangled overgrowth and all."
"Why is having dark, thick eyebrows considered "quirky beauty" when Lily Collins does it? When I do it it's SHAVE THE BEAST! SHAVE THE BEAST!"
"Oops... missed 37 strands on the left. 2319! We have a 2319!"