Browbeating.

 

 "Either work hard or you might as well quit. . . .

You can't touch this."

~ M.C. Hammer

Like, literally.

I need to see if I'm the only one who has dealt with the nonsense I'm about to waste your time with right now. (Consider that a warning if you were looking for a tender patient-doctor moment.)

Alright. You all know how obsessed I am with eyebrow grooming. That is, if you've been reading this blog for anything over a few months, you have probably been subjected to far more eyebrow shenanigans than the title of this blog suggests. But oh well. Eyebrows are important.

Here's why:

Too much brow, you know. . .you look like Bert on Ernie and Bert.

Too little brow you look like a hybrid between a surprised Pamela Anderson and Curious George--which is a hot mess.

And you tell me--what patient wants their doctor to look like either of these things? Ah hem. See? This serves as proof that eyebrows are quite relevant to this here blog. Quite. So there.

You still with me?

Okay, so check it. I was up in the eyebrow shop the other day--you know. . .the same one that my previously obtunded patient first told me about and the same one where the monobrow frat dude got his brows butchered in? Yeah. That one--exactly.

And real quick, I'll just explain to those who are new here a few simple things to bring you to speed. I go to this rather popular shop in Druid Hills where they pretty much focus on eyebrow threading. They also thread lips and random facial hair--which I do NOT get threaded, thank you very much. They'll also wax your lady parts if you are so inclined to allow such a thing, but me personally? I intensely fear that and don't fully understand its necessity. But I . .. errr. . .digress.

Antywho. There's a bunch of women in there threading eyebrows--five chairs on one side and five on the other side. Everybody can see everybody and that's just how it is. (Not if you get your lady parts waxed--they have some private rooms for that scary torture.)

So where was I? Oh. Yeah, I was in the shop. So the thing is. . . back in the day, my patient with the immaculate eyebrows turned me on not only to the shop, but also to the specific threader he recommended. I started going to her and went to her for at least six months. And, at first it was cool.

Until.

Something went awry. Like with her near vision or something--hell, I don't know. All I know is that she handed me that mirror one day and in my eyebrow I see a gash. A gash! One that I did not put there and one that made me look like some kind of rapper straight out of 1992.

Sort of like this:

Former rapper, Vanilla Ice

Okay. So. . .you know. . . I politely asked her, "Uhhh, it looks like there's a little bite out of my brows? Did that happen on accident?"  See? 'Cause I was trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. And me? I'll give a sister the benefit of the doubt the first time as long as you own it. Which she did not. She looked at me--like she didn't just slice me up--and acted like it was not EVEN her fault.

"Oh, your eyebrows just need to grow in a bit more," she said. She made this very innocent nod of her head from side to side that made it impossible to be mad at her. "Just use a bit of pencil until it comes in. We won't touch it, okay? It will be fine."

And that was how the okey-doke started between me and her.

So. This brings me to a side bar. I have this ridiculous need to be loyal to proprietors in certain businesses and am often too guilty to get what I really want because I feel bad. Like, how when I go to the Sweet Auburn Market near Grady where they have fifty trillion choices of places to eat but I always eat at the same place because I feel the need to be loyal to MiMi and Fred at the Metro Deli. Now. Would Fred or MiMi really give a crap if I went to the burrito place or to the Caribbean spot? No. It's just my own crazy.

So, yeah. I am guilt-ridden enough not to shift gears. Unless, of course, we're talking about my eyebrows.

And so. I gave her a couple of more chances. And they came out sort of like this:

Rapper, Soulja Boy

 And like this:

Except on my eyebrows instead of the side of my head--which I am not fully certain she wouldn't have gone for if I wasn't paying attention.

Lawd.

Not. Even. Exaggerating. (That much.)

So, finally, I just had to call it quits.

But here's the problem. Clearly that meant finding an entirely different salon since I couldn't possibly just switch ladies.

Uhhh, could I?

Well. I tried a few other spots. They didn't butcher me up like her but they just weren't as great as the lady across from my lady in the salon I'd just left. So seriously? I fought the good fight, y'all. And finally, after a four month hiatus, I slipped back into the original salon to go to the lady-across-from-my-lady that I'd been sizing up before my departure.

Now.

Here's what's crazy. I had the nerve to act all brand new like I'd never even been there before. So I come in the first time and sign up for new-and-improved-lady. And let me tell you. Unlike the slicer-dicer lady I'd left, she was not in need of reading glasses so she did a fine, fine job. And I got up from her chair, paid, and dipped like it wasn't nothing. I commenced to do that every two weeks for the next several months.

Mmmm hmmmm. Sure did.

Which reminds me. CLEARLY this is a striking cultural difference between sista-girl salons and salons run by those of other cultures. Because had this been my current hair salon, the minute I sat my behind down in that chair, SOMEBODY--even if it wasn't my stylist--would have qua-wickly called me  out on it. Quick, fast, and in a hurry.

Kind of like this:

"Dag! Why you ain't in SO-AND-SO's chair? Wha's that all about?"

Or better yet--this exact same sentence would been said directly to my original stylist with me in earshot. Mmm hmmm. But this wasn't a sista-girl hair salon, so in addition to not being able to purchase a homemade dessert, I was also not bothered by anyone for my disloyalty to my original threading lady.

That is, until the other day.

So I came in and for whatever reason, the spot was empty. Which is super unusual for this place because normally the wait is so ridiculous that the former lady couldn't really even notice what the heck I was doing. But this day, the worst case scenario finally happened.

Picture it. Ten chairs. Only five threading ladies there that day. Only a few clients. I walk in and sign up quietly for my new-and-improved-lady. The spot is usually first come first serve. And so. Of the four other people there, all of them are ahead of me and get called to other aestheticians/eyebrow ladies.

Cue the tumble weeds rolling by, old western showdown music and me sitting all alone in the waiting area.

So the check in dude (it's a dude, I'm not sure what that's about) he calls my name. "Kimberly!" So I walk over and dude is like, "Your lady has to wax somebody's lady parts. It could take a while." And okay. Maybe he didn't say "lady parts" but you get the picture.

So I said, "Okay. I have a book." Which I did.

But he said, "Well, you can go to SO-AND-SO right now and have no wait. She's very popular."

And YES, I could attest to her popularity, but the problem is that she needs some +2.0's before coming anywhere near me. Last I checked, she didn't have any. So I said, "That's okay. I'll wait."

And he just shrugged like "whatev" because that's what the dude at the eyebrow shop does all day. Mmm hmmm. But that's a whole different story.

So yeah. I go back to my lonely seat and I swear to you they must have locked the door to other clients because it was ME sitting alone and HER the slicer-dicer lady in her chair idly waiting for some business.

And those who go to this place DON'T bother asking me which lady because I will NOT tell you.

So I sit. And so does she. Like fifteen full minutes goes by which further affirms my refusal to get my lady parts waxed in a secret torture room.

Finally, the worst thing ever happens. Yep. She made eye contact with me.

Gasp!

I offered her my very best "we don't know each other" smile--which she was not buying AT ALL. So she smiled sweetly and said, "How've you been? I haven't seen you on Fox 5 lately. Do you still go?" I swear to goodness, y'all. . .it seemed like it was in that slow motion, garbled, sound that records used to make when you spun them with your finger or unplug the record player. (You pre-Thriller babies don't know nothin' 'bout that.)

"Uhh. . .who me?"

She nodded. And kept looking straight into my fuzzy eyebrowed face.

Doooohhhh!

She raised her own perfect brows (which clearly someone else was doing). I think that meant "HELL YEAH I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, YOU TRAITOR!"

And I said, "Uhhh. . .errrr. . . I just go to Fox here and there now. Uuuhh... .yeah. . I'm good." And quickly dropped my head back into my e-reader praying to the heavens that she did not say another word. No such luck.

"You used to come to me, no?"

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! STOP TALKING TO MEEEEEEEE!!!!!

LAWD. Do you know I'm such a dork that I acted like I had to THINK about whether or not I used to go to her? Me, who remembers everything from the freckles on someone's nose to the hair on their chinny-chin-chin had the nerve to wrinkle my nose and furrow my (fuzzy) brow like I wasn't sure?

And you know she was probably like, "B@&*CH, PLEASE!" (which, by the way, is exactly what someone would have said in my hair salon had the same thing went down.)

So I looked all sheepish and said, "Uhhh, yeah. . .I think . . .you did do me a couple of times . . .yeah. . .I think."

YOU THINK? CHILE PLEASE!  (That's what her expression said. As well it should have.)

"No. . . you came to me several times, I think. You have two little sons and you are a doctor."


KILLING MEEEEEEE!!!

I was praying for the new-and-improved-lady to come back from the lady-part-waxing-torture-tomb to rescue me. No such luck.

Gulp.

"Wow, you have a good memory." That was my lame answer.

Please end this now. Please end this now.

She leaned over the armrest of her chair and asked the unthinkable. "Why you stop coming to me?"

Really? Really.

And she just held my gaze, refusing to let a sister off the hook. Pain. Full.

So she looked. And I looked. And she waited. And I waited.

Finally I jumped up out of that chair and started pacing all around with my hands waving all crazy-like and answered her:

BECAUSE!!! YOU MADE ME LOOK LIKE VANILLA ICE AND SOULJA BOY REPEATEDLY! BECAUSE YOU NEED READING GLASSES SO THAT YOU CAN SEE WHAT YOU'RE DOING!! BECAUSE YOU BLAMED ME FOR MY EYEBROWS WHEN I NEVER TOUCH THEM ONLY YOU!! BECAUSE I'M SCARED OF YOU AND YOUR THREAD!! BECAUSE THE OTHER LADY DID NOT MAKE ME LOOK LIKE IT WAS HAMMER TIME!!!

Relax, people. I didn't say that.

But I almost did. For real.

Instead I just said, "Oh. . . heh . . . you're so popular and busy. I decided to start seeing one of the newer ladies."And seeing as every person in the world has a bit of vanity in them, this seemed to satisfy her.

That, or she decided it wasn't even worth pursuing further. Thank God she didn't either.

So yeah.

That's what's going on with me outside of Grady.

Has anything like that happened to y'all? Have you wanted to switch hairstylists or eyebrow ladies or (insert-your-thing-here) and struggled with it? Did you actually go through with it? Was I wrong for switching ladies in the same salon?

Maaaaan, this is important stuff, people. I need y'all to weigh in.

Yawn.


That's all I got for now. Can't you tell I'm still on stay-cation?

***
Happy Saturday.


And some absolutely perfect ridiculousness I found when looking for the song now playing on my mental iPod. . .MC Hammer's"Can't Touch This" -- accompanied by dancing eyebrows. You're welcome.