peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

I’m not sure why our society is obsessed with removing unwanted hair.

I remember back in the seventh grade, desperately wanting to shave my legs. I begged my mother. She said I could, but only up to the knee. That was a lovely sight. Hairless calves. Hairy thighs.

Then in the ninth grade, I discovered tweezers. And proceeded to overpluck my eyebrows.

Shave this. Shave that. Tweeze this. Pluck that. Blast that unwanted hair!

It wasn’t until the past decade that I discovered waxing. Professional eyebrow waxing. Upper lip waxing.

Over the years, when it came to swimsuit season, I simply used the razor to tidy up. No problem.

But I kept hearing about the wonders of bikini waxes. Friends told me, “You should totally do it!” But I put it off. Until right before my trip to Hawaii, when I put “bikini wax” on my to do list. Yeah, I totally did it!

And here are four things I learned about a bikini wax:

1. It was embarrassing.
2. It hurt.
3. Wear your pretty bikini panties. Oops.
4. Be clear with what you want. Oops.

I wasn’t exactly clear with what I wanted. Maybe it was the language barrier?

Let me just say that it’s a good thing hair grows back. Because two words: Hitler’s moustache.

I have a pretty high tolerance for the gross, bizarre, and inappropriate.

However, my conversation with Barbie raised some TMI (too much information) eyebrows.

Last weekend, Barbie groomed my eyebrows at the brow bar. I had been there before because Barbie is a pro. Except her name isn’t actually Barbie, but it might as well have been with her long blonde hair, blue eyes, tan in the winter, perfectly groomed brows, perfectly fake breasts, thin body.

While she was waxing my brows, we started chatting.

About the new recipes we tried. Barbie likes to make Chicken Cordon Bleu.

About her commute. She drives 40 minutes to work.

About her new apartment. And her boyfriend. And how he just bought her a head-to-toe laser hair removal treatment.

Whoa!

But then Barbie kept talking about the procedure. In detail. Including the Brazilian.

TMI, Barbie!

“I’ll never have to shave again!” she exclaimed.

Yeah, thanks for the visual.

While at the hair salon getting my hair trimmed, highlighted, and glossed, I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. You know the part, where she goes to the land of Oz the second time, and gets primped and fluffed?

Except my hair actually looked more like the lion. When the hairdresser combed it out, pulling out the curls, I was looking sorta crazy.

I admit, it’s always a little uncomfortable for me to be in the limelight. Either I make conversation or I stare into the mirror. But I sorta get sick of staring at myself. I tend to over-examine. How I applied my lipstick in a hurry and notice that it is askew. How my eyebrows need a little shaping. How I’m looking a little tired.

It’s always something.

But she doesn’t call attention to my imperfections. She sees plenty, I’m sure.

It’s the one hour and a half where I can just sit. And be taken care of. “Would you like some tea?”

When the hairdresser washes my hair, it’s my favorite part. It’s just not the same when I do it myself. I lather and scrub. Always racing the clock. Leaving the conditioner in while shaving. Always multitasking.

But the hairdresser? She takes her time. She massages. She uses plenty of hot water. This time around, I was so relaxed that I even dozed off for a few minutes!

After I was pampered and relaxed, instead of Dorothy, I was the woman in those stupid Calgon commercials. Remember those?

“The traffic. The boss. The baby. The dog…Calgon, take me away!”

This woman is losing it! Then cut to her in her tub of bubbles, oohing and aahing, relaxed and carefree.

That was me, but in the salon chair…Aveda, take me away!

I’m hanging out with other cool bloggers at Yeah Write this week. Check them out by clicking the badge below!

But I am amazed by their capabilities and kindness.

Holding hands. Scrubbing stains. Typing like a fiend. Folding clothes. Planting flowers. Feeding the dog. High-fiving. Holding books. Baking cookies. Mixing. Stirring. Snapping. Yeah I can snap.

Writing blog posts. Shaking hands. Swiping debit cards. Pushing grocery carts. Wrapping presents. Scrubbing pots. Signing checks for soccer camps. Patting a back. Braiding hair. Drawing. Tying shoes. Ahem. When are ya gonna learn to tie those shoes yourself, buddy?!

Clapping at kids’ recitals, sports games, graduations. Pulling undies-out-of-buttcracks. Building sandcastles. Burying hamsters. Filling up the kiddie pool. Pumping gas. Smoothing quilts. Googling. Applying make-up. Applying wrinkle cream. Driving. Yeah, I drive one handed.

Loving hands.

Handy hands.

Thoughtful hands.

Ugly hands.

They always need lotion. They have seen too much sun in their lifetime without sunscreen–oops. They are always cold. I can count the number of manicures I’ve had in my lifetime on, uh, one hand.

My sweet and perfect grandmother had ugly hands. They always smelled like Clorox bleach or chocolate chip cookies. Mine do too. But her hands were powerful and kind. She rolled out pie dough. She was a seamstress by trade and made amazing dresses. She patted me on my leg, like I was a good puppy, while we sat side-by-side. And she would smile at me like I was the best thing in the world.

Though my hands are ugly, I wear my wedding ring with pride (and have for 19 years). I like big costume-jewelry rings. My latest purchase was a ginormous-and-tacky owl ring. I like short-and-simple-no-fuss nails.

And if I need to, I can always borrow my son’s Hulk hands.

Going bra shopping these days is like a candy shop for your boobs. Purple polka dots. Leopard. Hot pink. Aqua. Flowery. Zig-zag. Stripes. Checkered. Lacy. Silky.

• The colors!
• The choices!
• The fun!

It’s like a boobylicious party. I wrote a previous post about bra shopping here: It’s the Bra Stupid.

It’s amazing how much a new bra makes you feel so much better about yourself. With my new purchases, my boobs are now back in my peripheral vision.

You may be wooed or disgusted by the labels…Age Defying Lift…Extreme Ego Boost…Attention Thief…Over Achiever…and my favorite: Prepare to Stop Traffic.

As for me?

I may need to change my name from Pesky Pippi to Perky Pippi. #justsaying

I went to the hair dresser today and thought, “What the heck, I’ll get my eyebrows waxed.” Because, well, they were sorta looking like this, which is fine if you’re a Muppet.

I go into the special back room. Which kinda has you creeped out a little because who knows what’s lurking in that back room. In those mystery jars and containers.

And the beauty technician’s eyebrows are sorta extra skinny and you don’t want to hurt her feelings by saying, “Could you please not make mine skinny and weird like yours?” because you know that extra skinny brows will make you look a little crazy and obsessive. So you say, simply, “I’d like to keep them full but a little bit shaped and cleaned up.” Then, you wonder if you’ve given enough direction for her to proceed. You hope for the best.

Her story telling is ill-timed. When I’m lying captive on the bed of doom, the beauty technician tells me that her eyebrows are actually shaved and she has tattooed them on.

Panic.

I mean, would YOU trust a beauty technician whose eyebrows are shaved and tattooed on?

At that point, she has already lathered on the hot wax. And I am hoping praying that she isn’t taking off too much. Or, whoopsidaisy, the whole brow. I make mental plans to schedule an appointment with the local tattoo artist asap to tattoo on a pair of perfect brows. I’m doomed.

She hands me the mirror for me to self-assess. I take a deep breath.

And, well, let’s just say that I won’t be taking any pictures of myself for awhile.

If your brows are looking a little bushy. And your upper lip is looking a little moustache-y. You might be rocking the Lorax look.

And if you live in Lorax land, you’ll fit right in. By I live in the Land of Milk and Honey. And we don’t let our women look Lorax-y.

So it might be time to waxy your Lorax-y.

Pippi visited the scary wax lady today. Scary because ya don’t really want to come out looking like Tammy Faye. But when they greeted me like Grandmother greeted the wolf, with “My what bushy eyebrows you have,” I knew I was in for a waxalicious treat.

She used so much wax, I thought it was it was Hanukkah.

When I have a spare few minutes here and there, I find myself making a dash to my magnifying mirror and my trusty pair of tweezers. My brand of choice is Tweezerman. (“The choice of make-up artists, models, and celebrities.”) It seems every other day, baby eyebrow hairs stand at attention–out of place. They stare at me and say, “pluck me” if you dare. Oh I dare.

I try to keep my brows well-groomed. It’s one of my many quirks. But not too arched or too thin. My Mom always cautioned, “Don’t over pluck or they may never grow back!”

Oh and then there’s the hairs–you know, whiskers–growing out of the chin. Hello?? Sprouting chin whiskers? And they are coarse. And they shine in the sun. They don’t really go with the image I’m going for. Know what I mean?

Reminds me of this kooky, old woman I used to see at storytime at the library. She had a chin hair so long that it needed a scrunchy.

May you never need a scrunchy for the hair on your chinny chin chin.