Taming of the Beasts and The WHE

At 12:45 p.m. this afternoon I partook in a very girlie endeavor, the brow wax. As a girl who is not very girlie (beer and football anyone?), I do make this one foray down girlstreet. Why? Because they do look kick ass after the wax. But honestly, I really don't think guys when speaking of girls comment on their eyebrows. Fat ass? Sure. Ability in the sheets? Definitely. Eyebrows like hairy salamis? Not so much. It is a complete girl (and metrosexual) phenomenon. The troubling thought is that I can't even trace back its appearance in popular culture. I started doing it about 3 years ago which means it probably gained popularity six years ago as I lag at pretty much twice the normal rate. I figure I will be wearing leggings and bangle bracelets sometime in 2012, after the frontal lobe lobotomy of common sense. Anyhoo, the last time I got a brow wax was a little over 8 weeks ago. I missed my next appointment 3 weeks later and vowed to make another all the while not tweezing, because I feel it is important to give the waxer a challenge. I mean, why the hell tweeze when I am paying someone to do it for me? So week after week it slipped my mind until suddenly on Monday I looked at my reflection to find that two brown caterpillars had taken residency upon my face. So an online appointment later I find myself this afternoon in Susie waxer's torture chair. It had occurred to me that 8 weeks of not plucking would provide a challenge for Susie, but what did not occur to me was that my face was the one taking the beating. Wax, rip, pluck. Repeat 30 times. As I exited the salon with my face now sporting an inflamed red reactionary batman like mask, I swore I was going to throw up from the aching. And almost four hours later, I find myself still sore and red, but with quite lovely eyebrows. Was it all worth it? Well I would have to say yes. Only because it is the first time since I have gotten worse haircut ever ("WHE"), I feel okay about it. I know I have neglected to mention WHE, but basically I got my hair razored, colored, and I don't likey. Everyone else likeys. But I don't, which has lead me to conclude that I will grow out this haircut until the razored snippets are capable of rejoining at a length in which my old hairdresser can cut a blunt bob. Then I will say a big fuck you to the hair cutting industry for a year, until I turn 35 and need bangs to hide my wrinkled forehead. The things I look forward to.