Vanity, Thy Name is Martha
I love makeup, I love skincare, and I looove myself. I have lost entire hours catching my own reflection in mirrors, windows, oily puddles. This week, I have been laid low.
I visited a local salon, having made an appointment a while ago to try a new experience: brow tinting. A patient had recommended it, and I figured it would be nice to try something new, and maybe shave a few minutes from my morning beauty routine. My brows are rather fair, and painting them on with wax every day is a bit of a chore. With the N95 mask that I wear at work, have indeed taken half of one off with an unfortunate swipe. That being said, tinting seemed the obvious solution.
The salon was welcoming, cozy, with high ceilings and dark wood furniture and velvet trimmed throw pillows. I waited patiently to get my temperature checked, considering the possibility of asking to get my hair trimmed too. My first clue should have been the leopard print leggings on the 60 year old bleach blonde who called me back. People seem get stuck in the trends of whenever they peaked, and this woman clearly had ascended somewhere between Dolly Parton and Cher.
“My engagement photos are in two weeks, so I don’t want them too dark,” I offered the only input I considered necessary. “Oh, lemme clean you up a bit, and I’ll work some magic. I’m a brow architect.” I hadn’t had my brows waxed in 8 years, but I felt safe in this woman’s manicured hands. I had no way of knowing that in just 22 minutes, I would pass through all 5 stages of grief in a hand mirror. For one brief moment, the thought occurred, ‘I don’t have a unibrow, why is she waxing there,’ but the salon owner had requested I not speak during the procedure so as not to produce the dreaded virus laden spit particles. “Oops, a little too much aloe there.” I held my tongue.
Brows are meant to be sisters, not twins. My brows didn’t always agree, but pomade tamed them, coaxed them into Instagram worthy arches. Now, in the glow of a repurposed dental lamp, my brows resembled not sisters, but 2 socially awkward strangers forced to make small talk over the newly barren furrow of my forehead. I choked. “I’m really sorry, this is the first time this has happened to me,” I stammered out. “They… look like commas.” The only other punctuation in the room was her silence. She tried to spoolie it out, to dab a nonexistent hair into place, but the damage was irreparable. The walls, at first a soothing merlot shade, were transformed into murky, menacing maroon. I felt trapped by my thin misshapen brows wrought into a prison, the crime vanity and the sentence “well, I’m sure they’ll grow out”. My captor wrung her hands, her face obscured by the gleam on her medical grade face shield.
“I’m sorry, I can see you’re upset. I won’t charge you.” For the first time in my life, my millennial sensibility to tip no matter what, because who am I to punish a fellow wage slave, relinquished its hold on my Visa. The poor woman scurried to the front to explain the issue in hushed tones usually reserved for the terminally ill. I fumbled with my belongings and the confusion of navigating societal niceties when I’ve been utterly dissatisfied with a service provided. “Have a good day,” was all I could manage, and I escaped. I immediately attempted to call my mother, but no answer. My sisters? Silent. I sent them a picture of my ruined forehead, only to be met with cute selfies of themselves at work. Later, I’d realize that was because none of them thought that my brows looked bad, and thought I was just being sociable.
I bought myself a comfort latte, and gave the barista the tip that has been intended for my brow architect. My therapist recommended Dawn dish soap to fade the tint, but only time will heal my ego.
