It had been four months since I’ve had any sort of grooming. Four months! That is a long, long time to go ungroomed, au naturale,
unfettered and free with my pores flapping in the breeze. I feel a
little bit like a hippie stereotype–not the pretty kind of hippie with
long, shining hair down to her waist, interwoven with flowers, garbed
(because hippies are “garbed”) in floaty layers of undyed cotton, eating
organic vegetables and petting deer in the golden sunshine. No, I’m the
kind of hippie that smells like hashish and has dirty toes and who
knows what’s going on in my underpants? You don’t want to know. At
least I’m a vegetarian. An ungroomed vegetarian.
I moved away from my battery of aestheticians–the
guy who does my hair, the lady who does my eyebrows (and my mustache),
the lady who does my girl waxing, the lady who does my nails. And I
have only just realized how awfully spoiled and terrible and expensive
that sounds. At least I’m not getting facials every week and a massage
and reiki energy work and my ass accupunctured
and my colon massaged and my chi read, right? Yeah, okay, yes, I’m high
maintenance anyway. Yet, I moved away from my beloveds, and I gave it
all up. I just didn’t want to start all over again. I spent years
finding professionals, and that kind of effort is exhausting. I didn’t
know that I’d find anyone to match up to the team I had assembled, who
kept me looking–well, as good as I ever get.
months, though, and it started to kill me. My hair in my face, not
knowing where my bangs ended and my giant eyebrows began. My hands
raggedy, my mustache long enough to twirl as I laugh evilly, and I
had, generally, just let myself go and I needed to not be gone, any
more. I needed to feel like myself again, and not a wreck. I needed to
not be a schlub
in my pajamas who doesn’t care what she looks like and has given up
hope and life and is sinking slowly into despondency. For me–for a lot
of people, I think–how I feel about myself, how I feel,
is very much in correlation with how I take care of myself. If, in
fact, I take care of myself. Not doing it–not keeping up with my
eyebrows means I am not keeping up with my sanity, you know? I am a walking, talking, ungroomed cliche of a girly girl, and I’m comfortable with that.
I finally started to research hairdressers and salons and manicure places and waximifiers,
and as it turns out, Salt Lake City and its surrounding areas are not
big on the yelp.com-style community sites, where you go to find
brutally honest (wildly varying) opinions from customers. Okay, fine.
Allure.com has a salon directory and–well, no, not for Utah. Citysearch?
No reviews. The Best of Utah, from the alternative weekly is out this
week–and no. Nothing. Websites. How do businesses stay in business
without having a web presence? If you go by the Internet, there are no salons in Utah. And yet, people go around, with haircuts on their heads and eyebrows and things.
smart thing to do would be to ask people. Except that I am not good at
going up to people and screaming OH MY GOD I LIKE YOUR EYEBROWS WHERE
DID YOU GET THEM DONE? That tends to make people nervous. Maybe it
would work better without the screaming. I will have to try that! I
bet I would get arrested less.
I kept poking around the Internet,
hoping that someone would magically come up with a website that says
“Good eyebrows this way!” and I was despairing, and then E’s mom saved
the day. Her sister does hair, and also eyebrows, and she has cute hair
and eyebrows, and oh, I am saved. I am saved by a morning of coffee and
gossiping and snacky
things and laughing and my hair is wrapped in foils and my eyebrows are
waxed, ow, and the scissors come out and she hasn’t let me look in the
mirror, but I finally get to, and I am adorable. My
hair is short and cute and red and black and my eyebrows are clean and
just those small things are large enough to make me feel like myself
again, when I didn’t even realize how far gone I had been.