Lately I’ve been trying to look like less of a slob. My current style is best summarised as Slum Chic. It’s high time I stopped being so lazy and tried to look more presentable. Some people say women let themselves go after they get married, but I can hardly let go when I wasn’t holding on in the first place!
My first tentative step in this campaign was to get my eyelashes tinted. Beauty editors are always gushing about how all you need is mascara and lipgloss and you’re ready to take on the world! But mascara seems like such a bloody palaver. It takes so long to apply, and I poke my eyeballs with the mascara wand every freaking time. I figured I could just get my Invisible Redhead Lashes tinted, that way it would look like I was putting in an effort without me actually having to put in an effort.
So I returned to the House of Wax. I thought the procedure would involve some very small paintbrushes, and some tiny fairy-like creatures sitting on my cheekbones, delicately tinting me one lash at a time. What actually happens is that they put Vaseline around your eyes, slap on some cotton wool blobs, tell you to close your eyes then unceremoniously swish on the dye. Then they repeat, DO NOT OPEN YOUR EYES under any circumstances.
Of course this was my cue to completely freak out and imagine the dye seeping into my retinas. And then freak out some more when my Waxtress said, “Okay, I’ll just do your eyebrows while we wait.”
Do my eyebrows now!?
My usual reaction to having small hairs ripped from my brow is to spring up in alarm and scream “Bastard!”, with EYES WIDE OPEN. So now she tells me I’m supposed to lay very still so she can torture me with hot wax while there are potentially blinding chemicals tiptoeing round the edge of my eyeballs?
“Are you okay?” came the gentle voice after the first brow was done.
“Fine!” I increased my death grip on the table.
“I was just making sure, since your nostrils are kind of flaring rapidly…”
“You’re all done!” she mopped my flaming brow with tea-tree gel. “I just need to get some cotton balls to wipe off the eyelash tint, I’ll be right back.”
How long does it take to find a fucking COTTON BALL!? It must have been twenty million minutes, at least. I swear I could feel the dye crawling up my eyelashes and peering over the rim. I couldn’t believe it, robbed of my vision right in the middle of the World Cup! I wondered if I would get the hang of Braille. Would I get a chocolate brown lab for a Guide dog or a traditional yellow one? Would it really matter?
It was so dark. So cold. And I really needed to blink. Should I cry for help? Should I strike out with my leg and kick over that bamboo screen to get attention? Or maybe the Waxtress was actually lurking there, behind the screen and laughing very quietly at my predicament.
I was just about to bellow, “I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE!” when I finally heard her singsong tones.
“Sorry about that! Here I am.”
She swabbed away then finally I was free . My breathing returned to normal only when I could successfully count all my fingers and read BANK OF SCOTLAND on the ten pound note I handed over to her. The finished effect was nice, but I’m not sure the thirty seconds saved each morning is worth the trauma. I tell you, if they employed the Hot Wax/Lash Tint Torture Combo at Guantanamo Bay, I would have squealed like a piggy.