I have decided that I have just the idea to help cure what ails me. I need to go to the chair.
The beautician’s chair, that is. I need Miranda to do that voodoo that she do do so well.
My scalp needs a deep-muscle massage, my hair needs an infusion of color and some style reintroduced and my eyebrows need separating, one from the other. You know, that eyebrow thing is like getting a mini-facelift. I know it’s so — I heard Oprah say it on her show once.
Every woman in America owes it to herself to get that little bit of extra fur removed from over her eyes. It makes your face look longer, thinner (thinner, that’s the best part).
Get a little zing in your come-hither look. I don’t mean stand in front of the mirror making faces while you try to ambush yourself with the tweezers. I almost feel like drawing a line on my brow and then just plucking anything that falls outside of it.
Someone once told me that you had to be very careful when plucking your eyebrows because there would come a time when they won’t grow back. Please tell me, when is that time when they won’t grow back? I think this person knew nothing about the subject matter, or else she just lied.
They grow back. And like children returning to the nest, they bring friends.
There is so much maintenance to the face that we take for granted when our skin is young and dewy, that we pay for when we are going into menopause, getting on the other side of menopause and pulling away from it, tires screeching and smoke blazing.
When you’re 50, you’ll look into the mirror and wonder why you see your mother there, peering back at you. Then it will dawn on you. This is why your mother told you to use the terrycloth washcloths (or wash rags as we called them.)
Can’t begin to know why, they were bought new every year, to match the garish towels then in fashion and thrown out into the “ragbag” after a year’s use. But still, they were wash rags.
That lovely terrycloth kept our skin clean and polished. I don’t know when I went to using sponges dipped in Noxzema (is that even spelled right?) but when I was finished my face wasn’t shiny red, or sparkling clean…it was just funny-smelling and looked slightly oily, although the product was “grease free” and we all knew that soap was made of animal fat.
So, I’m back to the wash rag and ivory soap, I’m getting my eyebrows plucked so that I look less like the missing link and now, horrors of all horrors, I see that a little lip waxing may be in order…don’t want anyone calling me Mr. McBride now, do I?
Is it worth it? Well, unless I want to lock myself in the house and never see another living soul, I’d say yes.
Sandi McBride is a resident of Jefferson who blogs regularly and enjoys her garden and her furry and feathered friends. She is a wife and mother of two sons.