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Eyebrows and emissions (I)
You'll be relieved to know that this entry contains very little angst. It also contains no thoughts on the difference between SF and fantasy, and no snide comments about Fandom.
Yesterday's correspondence led me to think I'd better just permanently retire the SF/fantasy argument, the way I retired the porn/erotica argument. As for Fandom, I believe I owe everyone another apology, because I'm coming to some unpleasant conclusions about my own twisted psyche and why it causes me to react the way I do ... so there probably will be more on that soon.
But not today. Today I want to tell you about my eyebrows. And then I'm going to tell you a pair of stories about flatulence.
No, really.
This morning's Globe ("this morning" means Tuesday; it's after midnight as I post this, so it'll be dated Wednesday) had an article on beauticians (or "aestheticians" - ugh - why did they choose that term? Is it so they won't scare away male customers who are frightened of the word "beautiful"?) -
Urg. Bad parenthesis! Bad parenthesis! Let's start over.
This morning's paper had an article about beauticians who shape eyebrows. Three of them, talking about why people would want to do it, what their usual working method is, and how much they charge.
Purely a puff piece, except that, as you may not know, I have a jones to have my eyebrows done. My eyebrows in their natural state are - to put it charitably - bushy. And I am no good at shaping them myself (except the plucking I do in the center to avoid Unibrow Syndrome). I know where the eyebrows should begin and end, but I never know exactly what sort of arch to make or which hairs to remove to do it efficiently.
I have been deterred from having someone "do" my brows for the usual reason - the one having to do with gender, embarrassment, you know the drill.
Well, the first person interviewed was a gentleman named Austen. His comments told me two things:
1. He was gay and flamboyant.
Ok, apologies to everyone on earth for the stereotype, but a gay male working in a salon is no great surprise to me. However:
2. He had the correct attitude.
I.e. he was talking about how men were always scared of getting their brows done because they felt it would make them look feminine and so forth. More to the point, the picture of him was only his eye and his brow - and this man had a high, arch (in both senses), thin feminine brow that screamed out to me: This man is Drag Queen Friendly.
So I left work early and headed for this joint, which is in the trendy expensive part of Back Bay. (I had already noted, though, that his rates were shockingly affordable.) I recognized him - by his brow - even through the salon window. And he saw me.
I gave him plenty of opportunity to see me - along with just about everyone else in the place - because I stood and paced outside that salon for probably a half an hour.
See, I find salons extremely intimidating. It's not just the gender and beauty thing - it's like I feel I don't know the rules. I think part of this is that my mother always cut my hair, right up until I left Louisiana, and so it's a culture shock for me to actually have to go somewhere and have a stranger cut my hair. I wasn't getting my hair cut today, of course, but even so: Do I make an appointment? How booked in advance is this person? Am I dressed right? How much should I tip? You know - there are rules. Hurdles to clear.
You'll be pleased to know that I eventually did grow a spine and go in. He was available after a very short wait, and it turned out that my guess was correct.
In fact, he does drag fairly regularly and he understood my nervousness completely. He said his dream was to have a salon of his own and then be able to set up certain days when those of us who are on the wrong side of the gender line can go in and have our unusual beauty needs attended to without fear. (Okay, he didn't say it quite that way. He was less verbose. But that was the gist.)
He uses a combination of wax and tweezing and it probably didn't take fifteen minutes all told. He charged me $12 and I gave him $16. He should be charging more than that.
The next thing I did was go to the bathroom at Copley Place where there was a mirror big enough and well-lit enough to have a good look. Since my brows turn red and puffy for about fifteen minutes after you pluck them, and I also had my hairband, earrings, etc, I got some odd looks in the mens's room. Those don't bother me anymore.
Then I went to Hazel's and had poached eggs and potato pancakes with hollandaise and wandered around aimlessly for a while and read folktales and tried to find Judy, who was unavailable. (Judy is Nonelvis' sister - I cannot believe I forgot to put her in the bio page. She works in the area and it was getting late and I was thinking I could ask her to have a drink after work). So I gave up and went home. Not ten minutes after I sat down and started checking mail, Judy called! So we ended up meeting to have sushi. (Nonelvis preferred to stay home and eat leftover Cambodian noodles.)
And that was my afternoon.
Wondering where the flatulence is? It's in the next entry, which is (pardon the phrase) a bit more lowbrow.
© Columbine
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"You really are a genius!"
"That's what it says on the card."
- Mystery Men
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