I’m fantasizing being asked this question while I wait VERY impatiently for a call from my prospective publisher. Don’t they know I have ADHD? This is torture.
“I was plucking my eyebrows,” would be my answer. This is what I was doing when I was imagining the phone ringing with that fateful call.
I can hear you now: What?! Are you kidding me? I thought you were, like, Ms. Chick ADD, Ms. Unconventional, Ms. Alternative, Ms. I-Ain’t-No-Martha-Stewart?
I am! Let me explain…
Eyebrow plucking, manicures, pedicures? What do I know of these?! I have ADHD. I barely have time to shower.
Many years ago for my birthday, a friend kindly bought me a gift certificate to a – um – see? I don’t even know the *#&$! word, I’m not kidding you, but it’s a place where you get a facial and other girly-girl stuff. An esthetician. That’s it. (Phew. I’m not into this stuff per se, but I do live in this culture and not in a cave, much as I would enjoy that at times.) (Sorry, but I’m completely stressed out waiting for the call from the aforementioned publisher. A tad touchy I am. Ever notice how close that word is to bitchy? Only three little letters off. Maybe I’m both. Anyway…)
I note that my friend also bought a gift certificate for herself. This made me even more dubious. I mean, if I needed moral support and all that, was it really something I wanted to partake in? And did I really want her watching as my many visible flaws were first pointed out, then prodded in an attempt to somehow assuage them so that I’m more publicly palatable? No. No, I really didn’t. But a present is a present, so off we went, into the unknown world of feminine beauty regimes.
Still a mani- and pedicure virgin
(To this day I haven’t so much as had a manicure, pedicure, or waxing of any sort. Why, by the way, do new men in your life always ask if you’ve ever shaved “down there?” Is that the sort of thing we need to know? Do I ask a new boyfriend if he tweezes his nose hairs? Shaves his feet? No. Nor would I. The very question makes me itch. Besides, I can barely get out the door showered, let alone spend time pruning my privates like some Medieval King’s courtyard bushes. I have ADHD. My teeth are brushed. Leave me alone.) (Geez, I am getting cranky. Where’s that phone call? Please, oh please, oh please, oh please, put me out of my misery! I’m assaulting my blog readers to pass the time. This is not good. Soooo not good.)
So ya, much to my great chagrin ever since that epic day where I actually had someone else poking a needle into my zits (I’ve blocked most of that day out, as one might a torture session at Guantanamo, but I’m sure the PTSD remains), I’ve had to – shudder – pluck my eyebrows. Why?
Ignorance is no longer an option
I now know that, if I hold a pencil or straight edge of some type upright beside my nose and follow the line up, it will lead to the optimal border of my eyebrow. This (as I was told by the expert, who by the look of her pristine white lab coat should know), will “open my face up.” (To what, she didn’t say. But as I’ve practiced being “open” for years, this seemed right up my nosebridge.)
I admit, I’ve lapsed since that inglorious day…
Each of my dark, ample eyebrows has now been allowed to meander into third eye territory, but just ever so slightly, perhaps by 1/8 of an inch or so (that’s about 3 mm for my Canadian and British readers.)
Is this a fashion crime? Maybe…
…but no more so than my wantonly chopping off my fingernails, as I did yesterday, with nary a nanosecond of hesitation, in eager anticipation of learning to play the bass guitar. Which is also, I’m given to understand, not the normal female purview.
I can’t focus on writing anymore. I’m going to go play bass. Softly. I DO want to hear the phone should it ring…
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