I’m usually the sort of person who tries to avoid a lot of pain.
I’ve never tried body waxing, I run from any kind of needle and I
made it through the eighties with only two piercings, one in each
ear.
That said, as of yesterday this whole pain-free way of life is
gone.
I’m usually the sort of person who tries to avoid a lot of pain. I’ve never tried body waxing, I run from any kind of needle and I made it through the eighties with only two piercings, one in each ear.
That said, as of yesterday this whole pain-free way of life is gone. GONE. Why, you ask? Not because anyone forced me to give it up, or because I went temporarily insane, but because, you see, I did something “in the name of beauty.”
And, for a reason none of us know, almost anything, no matter how hideous or painful or crazy it sounds, can be endured by women throughout the ages as long as it falls under the category of, In the Name of Beauty. Take, for instance, the twelve-inch corset. Or Chinese feet binding. Or tribal African neck extending. And I don’t even need to mention the Dorothy Hamill haircut. The list goes on and on.
But now all I have to say is ha! ha! All those are nothing compared to the latest beauty fad sweeping suburbia: permanent make up. Now for those of you who don’t know what this is, it’s secret code for “getting a tattoo on your face.” Yes, that’s right. A. Tattoo. On. Your. Face.
Now why would anybody in their right mind do this willingly, you ask? Well, you guessed it. It’s all (everyone together now) “in the name of beauty.”
Yeah, I know what you’re probably thinking. But let me beat you to the punch and just say that I’ve spent years searching for my inner beauty. I’ve practiced all seven principles for strength, balance and harmony. I’ve mediated for hours trying to find my inner light and I renewed my spirit so many times I’ve lost count. And through all this soul-searching that I discovered that the one thing in life that would truly fulfill me is… wait for it… good eyebrows.
And while this may not be a particularly life-altering or lofty revelation, it’s true. Ever since I can remember, I’ve ping-ponged between having no eyebrows what so ever and looking like Bert on Sesame Street. So imagine my relief to find out that this problem could be solved by getting one, okay two, little measly tattoos.
However, when you try explaining this to other people, it seems that everyone has a strong opinion on the matter. Believe me, I’ve heard them all. Everything from my husband’s, “Hey, you could buy a plasma TV for the same price.” To my mom’s, “There’s nothing wrong with your eyebrows, dear.” To my always practical friend Barb’s, “You know, this is only a gateway procedure. The next thing you know, you’ll want a chin tuck and breast implants.” It’s a decent point, I admit.
However, before you start in, too, let me just say it’s not as bad as it sounds. Except for the needle part. And the blood part. And, oh yeah, the pain part. But, really, the pain is manageable during the procedure if you just relax and concentrate on pleasant things.
For instance my internal dialogue went something like this: I love shoppin …hey! For cute shoes …ow! On sale … Ouch! OUCH! OUUUUUUCH!!
It would a stretch to say it was easy, but in the end everything worked out fine. It really didn’t hurt all that badly, there wasn’t too much blood, and I now have two, permanently symmetrical, eyebrows.
Oh, there’s probably a big, fat Zen lesson in here somewhere. Maybe it’s that a middle aged woman shouldn’t attempt to adhere to impossible beauty standards. Or that real beauty should come from the inside.
Whatever the reason, I can’t really think about it now since my eyebrows are swelling, and I have to find some ice.
Sometimes beauty is hard work.
