The Taming of the Brows
I have the sort of eyebrows that everyone notices. Not because they are particularly attractive, strikingly arched, or perfectly symmetrical, but because they are big. They are big, dark, and look just like the female version of my father’s eyebrows. For the first 25 years of my life, I never gave my eyebrows much thought. They were certainly a dominant feature on my face, but since they always kept a safe distance from one another, each maintaining its proper place on opposite sides of my nose, I figured they were a trait I could tolerate. Instead I spent my energy obsessing about my enormous forehead and huge teeth. Unfortunately, at some point in the mid-1990s, regular looking eyebrows became a fashion faux-pas, and anyone who did not submit to the tweezing and waxing of eyebrow professionals was taunted by the beauty Mafiosos as having brows that were (gasp!) “ungroomed.”
My initial response to the wave of short, skinny, disappearing eyebrows was to grow my bangs long. I figured if they hit right in the middle of my eyebrows, the untrained eye would be unable to discern whether the hair that looked astray came from the top of my head or my eyebrows. I thought this strategy was working until one day, two coworkers began pestering me, wanting to know why I never got my eyebrows waxed, why wouldn’t I want to do it, everybody did it, and it made keeping your eyebrows groomed so much easier. I guess having broached the subject once, these women felt they might as well harass me on a daily basis and see if they could shame me into a salon where a trained professional could wrestle my radical eyebrows in line with acceptable norms. I resisted their suggestions, mainly because I had no interest in unnecessary pain, and having already found a husband, I didn’t think my future happiness depended upon it.
However, after several months of constant critiquing of my eyebrows, my coworkers attitude became more aggressive, as if they refused to believe that my eyebrows just grew that way, and instead thought that I must somehow be encouraging them to be out of step with society. I finally did make my way to a salon, I suppose in some respects in response to the months of badgering. However, my main motivation for finally going under the wax, was that I had to attend a wedding for a tall beautiful couple. I had just had a baby I was trying to do anything that would improve my appearance and make me feel a little less chubby and drab, particularly in the face of beautiful people primed and shined up for a wedding.
The following description of my first experience at the hands of an eyebrow waxer can also be used as a manual on how-not-to get your eyebrows groomed. I made my appointment at the salon in conjunction with a haircut, not what a beauty magazine might characterize as a top-notch salon, although it was a self-described “full-service” salon. When I arrived and was seated in the chair to discuss my haircut, the stylist was so distracted by my eyebrows that she found herself unable to listen to any discussion on my hair until my eyebrows were properly disciplined. Two warning bells should have sounded in my head, but as an eyebrow client novice, I had no idea. First, the hair stylist was also going to be the eyebrow stylist, although apparently this was absolutely no guarantee that she knew what she was doing. Second, the stylist’s own eyebrows were two inch long commas over her eyes, and I could not tell by looking at her what her “ungroomed” eyebrows might have typically looked like. Naïve as I was, I assumed that she would clean up the strays under and between my eyebrows and leave them looking like a better, neater, shall I say, better-groomed version of my original brows.
The warmth of the wax was actually quite nice, and the part where she ripped the hairs out of my brows while not fun, was not as painful as I had prepared myself for. I could not tell from the sensations on my face what the brows were going to look like, but I was optimistic, and proud of myself that I had finally become a modern woman with well-groomed brows. As I walked back to the stylist’s chair to get my first look at them, I was filled with anticipation, but as I gazed up to look in the mirror, I was suddenly filled with alarm. There, above my eyes, where my eyebrows used to be, surrounded on all sides by sunburn pink skin, were two little commas, each about an inch long. I looked, I thought, like a complete idiot. I had no notion how I would face my brothers and sisters who had inherited the same distinctive eyebrows I had just abandoned, no idea what to say to the bullying coworkers who had thought this was such a great idea, and no clue how to salvage my face for the wedding I was about to attend. I looked like one of those female movie extras from the twenties, who had shaved off her eyebrows and drawn them back on in such an unlikely manner, that you had trouble taking in any other part of her face.
And so I sat through the haircut, repeating over and over that I wanted my bangs left long, really long, maybe don’t even cut the bangs at all, they were my only source of camouflage for my now nearly naked browbone. I went home and faced my husband, waiting for him to tease me a little and then comfort me for the way I had been abused in the name of fashion. However, he did not notice anything other than my haircut. At work the next day, I ducked down in front of my computer screen, hoping the tilt of my head would provide my bangs with additional length and enable them to provide additional coverage. Eventually, the browbeating coworkers came by, and when I looked up to face them, they were absolutely delighted by what they saw, spewing compliments, asking “Aren’t you sorry you waited so long?” I gave them a weak smile, and while I believed they were sincere, I also thought they were out of their minds. Finally, on Saturday, as my husband and I sat around with our friends having a few drinks before the wedding, one of my friends said to an astonished me, “I see you’ve started waxing your eyebrows – they look great.”
I still puzzle over the universal acclaim my nondescript teeny eyebrows received. I guess eventually I began to think that maybe I was wrong, that eyebrows should all look alike, and that in order to be well groomed, I should fall in line with the rest of America. I also realized that having had my eyebrows removed, I was going to have a hard time growing them back into their original shape. As each hair grew back in, I was never sure whether it was one I should keep, or one that was stray, so month after month, I found myself back in the salon for another comma shaping treatment. I had heard that if you remove your eyebrows too often, eventually they will not grow back in, and I might have fallen victim to that quirk of nature if not for the US Army.
The Army is often hailed for its role in disaster relief, and I am happy to join the chorus. By ordering my husband and I to move away, the Army got me away from the eyebrow comma salon. Of course, settled into our new home I was a little leery of having my eyebrows or hair messed with in a new place, so I waited and little by little my eyebrows reemerged. When I finally went in to a new salon and asked the hair stylist about eyebrows, she referred me to the aesthetician. The what? They had a person on staff that looked at people’s faces and tried to determine the best brow shape for them. There is more than one brow shape? She took one look at me and said “Oh no, who took off the ends of your eyebrows?”
That was the beginning of my rehabilitation, but it still took a good 3 years to get my eyebrows back. I thought I had made pretty good progress until I watched an episode of Sex in the City, where all of the women have eyebrows that are about three inches long. I went from the TV to the mirror and decided, any eyebrow hairs that decided to move in at the far reaches of my eyebrows would be welcomed provided their neighbors eventually arrived.
And so I sit here in another new home provided by the Army, with my brows pretty much restored, except, now they need grooming. I know I can submit myself to the hands of an aesthetician if I can find one, but I would like to try to do it myself, so like the good scientist I once was, I have thrown myself into research. Apparently the pendulum has swung away from one-shape fits all tiny eyebrows toward more “natural” brows. Now, brows should be filled in to make them more prominent, and groomed to reflect their natural shape. Distinctive brows are considered an asset, crucial for providing character and balance to one’s face. Where was this attitude five years ago? Wouldn’t women have always wanted their faces to be distinctive? Why would thousands and thousands of women like me submit ourselves to someone else’s idea of beauty? I guess I was young, a little insecure, and looking to fit in, but I think the reason I fell in step so readily is that five years ago no one was asking questions - the punctuation mark of the times was the comma.
My initial response to the wave of short, skinny, disappearing eyebrows was to grow my bangs long. I figured if they hit right in the middle of my eyebrows, the untrained eye would be unable to discern whether the hair that looked astray came from the top of my head or my eyebrows. I thought this strategy was working until one day, two coworkers began pestering me, wanting to know why I never got my eyebrows waxed, why wouldn’t I want to do it, everybody did it, and it made keeping your eyebrows groomed so much easier. I guess having broached the subject once, these women felt they might as well harass me on a daily basis and see if they could shame me into a salon where a trained professional could wrestle my radical eyebrows in line with acceptable norms. I resisted their suggestions, mainly because I had no interest in unnecessary pain, and having already found a husband, I didn’t think my future happiness depended upon it.
However, after several months of constant critiquing of my eyebrows, my coworkers attitude became more aggressive, as if they refused to believe that my eyebrows just grew that way, and instead thought that I must somehow be encouraging them to be out of step with society. I finally did make my way to a salon, I suppose in some respects in response to the months of badgering. However, my main motivation for finally going under the wax, was that I had to attend a wedding for a tall beautiful couple. I had just had a baby I was trying to do anything that would improve my appearance and make me feel a little less chubby and drab, particularly in the face of beautiful people primed and shined up for a wedding.
The following description of my first experience at the hands of an eyebrow waxer can also be used as a manual on how-not-to get your eyebrows groomed. I made my appointment at the salon in conjunction with a haircut, not what a beauty magazine might characterize as a top-notch salon, although it was a self-described “full-service” salon. When I arrived and was seated in the chair to discuss my haircut, the stylist was so distracted by my eyebrows that she found herself unable to listen to any discussion on my hair until my eyebrows were properly disciplined. Two warning bells should have sounded in my head, but as an eyebrow client novice, I had no idea. First, the hair stylist was also going to be the eyebrow stylist, although apparently this was absolutely no guarantee that she knew what she was doing. Second, the stylist’s own eyebrows were two inch long commas over her eyes, and I could not tell by looking at her what her “ungroomed” eyebrows might have typically looked like. Naïve as I was, I assumed that she would clean up the strays under and between my eyebrows and leave them looking like a better, neater, shall I say, better-groomed version of my original brows.
The warmth of the wax was actually quite nice, and the part where she ripped the hairs out of my brows while not fun, was not as painful as I had prepared myself for. I could not tell from the sensations on my face what the brows were going to look like, but I was optimistic, and proud of myself that I had finally become a modern woman with well-groomed brows. As I walked back to the stylist’s chair to get my first look at them, I was filled with anticipation, but as I gazed up to look in the mirror, I was suddenly filled with alarm. There, above my eyes, where my eyebrows used to be, surrounded on all sides by sunburn pink skin, were two little commas, each about an inch long. I looked, I thought, like a complete idiot. I had no notion how I would face my brothers and sisters who had inherited the same distinctive eyebrows I had just abandoned, no idea what to say to the bullying coworkers who had thought this was such a great idea, and no clue how to salvage my face for the wedding I was about to attend. I looked like one of those female movie extras from the twenties, who had shaved off her eyebrows and drawn them back on in such an unlikely manner, that you had trouble taking in any other part of her face.
And so I sat through the haircut, repeating over and over that I wanted my bangs left long, really long, maybe don’t even cut the bangs at all, they were my only source of camouflage for my now nearly naked browbone. I went home and faced my husband, waiting for him to tease me a little and then comfort me for the way I had been abused in the name of fashion. However, he did not notice anything other than my haircut. At work the next day, I ducked down in front of my computer screen, hoping the tilt of my head would provide my bangs with additional length and enable them to provide additional coverage. Eventually, the browbeating coworkers came by, and when I looked up to face them, they were absolutely delighted by what they saw, spewing compliments, asking “Aren’t you sorry you waited so long?” I gave them a weak smile, and while I believed they were sincere, I also thought they were out of their minds. Finally, on Saturday, as my husband and I sat around with our friends having a few drinks before the wedding, one of my friends said to an astonished me, “I see you’ve started waxing your eyebrows – they look great.”
I still puzzle over the universal acclaim my nondescript teeny eyebrows received. I guess eventually I began to think that maybe I was wrong, that eyebrows should all look alike, and that in order to be well groomed, I should fall in line with the rest of America. I also realized that having had my eyebrows removed, I was going to have a hard time growing them back into their original shape. As each hair grew back in, I was never sure whether it was one I should keep, or one that was stray, so month after month, I found myself back in the salon for another comma shaping treatment. I had heard that if you remove your eyebrows too often, eventually they will not grow back in, and I might have fallen victim to that quirk of nature if not for the US Army.
The Army is often hailed for its role in disaster relief, and I am happy to join the chorus. By ordering my husband and I to move away, the Army got me away from the eyebrow comma salon. Of course, settled into our new home I was a little leery of having my eyebrows or hair messed with in a new place, so I waited and little by little my eyebrows reemerged. When I finally went in to a new salon and asked the hair stylist about eyebrows, she referred me to the aesthetician. The what? They had a person on staff that looked at people’s faces and tried to determine the best brow shape for them. There is more than one brow shape? She took one look at me and said “Oh no, who took off the ends of your eyebrows?”
That was the beginning of my rehabilitation, but it still took a good 3 years to get my eyebrows back. I thought I had made pretty good progress until I watched an episode of Sex in the City, where all of the women have eyebrows that are about three inches long. I went from the TV to the mirror and decided, any eyebrow hairs that decided to move in at the far reaches of my eyebrows would be welcomed provided their neighbors eventually arrived.
And so I sit here in another new home provided by the Army, with my brows pretty much restored, except, now they need grooming. I know I can submit myself to the hands of an aesthetician if I can find one, but I would like to try to do it myself, so like the good scientist I once was, I have thrown myself into research. Apparently the pendulum has swung away from one-shape fits all tiny eyebrows toward more “natural” brows. Now, brows should be filled in to make them more prominent, and groomed to reflect their natural shape. Distinctive brows are considered an asset, crucial for providing character and balance to one’s face. Where was this attitude five years ago? Wouldn’t women have always wanted their faces to be distinctive? Why would thousands and thousands of women like me submit ourselves to someone else’s idea of beauty? I guess I was young, a little insecure, and looking to fit in, but I think the reason I fell in step so readily is that five years ago no one was asking questions - the punctuation mark of the times was the comma.
posted by Shannon at 9:48 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home