peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

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.

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.