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What Just Happened?

Explicit Content

I feel the need to apologise now for the swearing that follows herein…

If you’re having a bad day and a friend asks you to go with her to the brow bar say no. For the love of God, say no.

The prospect was a simple one: I was to have my eyebrows threaded. I’d never had my eyebrows threaded before but steeled myself for a potentially painful experience. It didn’t actually hurt as I’d expected it might do but she did ask me to stretch my own skin taut and that was a bit weird. I mean, what about my eyeshadow, damn it? Although I was somewhat disgruntled at this, I accepted it as part of the experience and reasoned that at least I now knew for next time. Unfortunately, from this point, the next half hour went slowly downhill. The technician finished quickly and then she asked me a series of follow up questions that I have come to regret answering:

“Shall we dye them? You need it.”

I need it? Well fuck, if I ‘need’ it, what am I supposed to say?

“Ok,” I stammered, and then added, “but not too dark!”

I dread to think what could have happened if I hadn’t added this stipulation. The paint set came out and that was that. I sat waiting, not daring to open my eyes and look in the mirror. She strokes my upper lip. STROKES IT.

“Shall we do your lip? You need it.”

WHAT THE FUCK?? Who says that? I need my top lip waxed?? As if!

“Do I?” I asked, shocked.

“Yes,” she insists and offers me a mirror. For tiny blonde hairs she insists that I need this. Ok, I think, I’m cool. I’m a God damn woman, so why the hell not?

“Ok then.”

The wax goes on, it’s in my bloody mouth, what if she waxes my fucking lips off? She doesn’t, she’s a professional. This woman probably waxes everyone she’s ever met. My friend Amy is in the chair laughing at this point and trying not to show it. She’s no bloody help; she’s probably in on it.

SHE STROKES MY CHIN!!! My chin!!! What the fuck??

“Shall we do your chin? You need it.”

I need my fucking chin waxing??? Do I? Do I now?

“Do I?”


She doesn’t even offer me the mirror; she knows she has me by now and then as if she knows she can catch Amy as well, she summons another ‘Wax Pusher’ from the wings. Wax Pusher number two proceeds to talk Amy into waxing her top lip. Amy is blonde for fuck’s sake. This is a bloody waxing racket.

“Ok?” I agree finally, and by now Amy is in fits of laughter and I’m trying not to laugh with my beard full of wax. On it goes. Under my chin damn it, my God damn chin! She rips half my fucking face off, cleans me up a bit and looks approvingly at my hair-free face.

Amy isn’t laughing so much in the chair next to me now.

“Shall we do your chin? You need it.”

Ah ha!! Not so fucking funny now is it Blondie?!? It got worse. For poor Amy it actually got worse, because Wax Pusher 2.0 did not appraise her with an approving look at the end. Oh no. Amy was not allowed to leave the chair. Out comes the threading twine and back on Amy’s obviously impressive moustache she works until she’s satisfied that all of the ‘difficult bits’ have gone. When Amy sat up she looked both stricken and very red… it took a lot of makeup before she felt comfortable enough to leave. She announced later to her team that she ‘has a high pain threshold’. Well, your brain might, Amy; I don’t think your skin does, let me know when it forgives you.

We signed a waiver at the desk — for what, I didn’t read, something about dye. I wanted to die. We then paid them £22 apiece for the privilege and I actually still think that was a bit of a bargain for all we had done. I’m hoping against all hope that it hasn’t paved the way for a rather impressive goatee; even now as I stroke my still somewhat numb face I’m frightened of this possibility. We dragged ourselves back off to the car in somewhat of daze, just repeating the three words that will probably haunt me for the rest of my life:


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