Every now and then I am convinced by my significant other (spousal equivalent, person I co-habitate with, keeper of the calendar, and most importantly, she-who-must-get-head-skritches-and-foot-rubs) to venture outside into the great wide world. On this excursion out of my dark, dank pit of comfort, video games and oddly sufficient light to paint miniatures, we ventured (or rather I ventured and she boldly went to where she had been before) to the mall. It doesn’t really matter what mall we went to, they are all the same in my opinion, an odd mixture of food stalls crammed next to clothing shops, so as soon as you are done cramming all those pretzels and popcorn down your verbal diarrhea orifice you can immediately get a new pair of pants because the button on your old pair came flying off at such a high velocity that it is now a permanent fixture above the cell phone repair cart.
Once we got to the mall in question we parked the car (a feet all on its on on account of the terminally old and the terminally young) and made our way inside, narrowly dodging a car full of teenagers who were too busy doing whatever teens do nowadays (I assume its snorting powdered alcohol off of each other’s backsides while vaping and high fiving each other and snap chatting the whole thing). After that harrowing experience I was rewarded with a strawberry bubble tea, and man, that thing was delicious. Just the right mixture of sweet and sweet with tiny black balls that every now and then I would suck up and swallow greedily.
So where were we? We had gotten there, parked, almost died on the walk into the mall and gotten a bubble tea. Right, after the obligatory stops to the major clothing retailers and the game stores (both board and video) in the mall we wandered by a curious little shop. I’m sure you have all seen the type, lithe women stand poised and ready to assault your face with their implements of beautification, in this case, thread that has been spun from Satan’s butt hair, designed to be unbreakable and cut right to the heart of any matter. That’s right, we passed by an eyebrow threading parlor, and me without having anything to write about though “hey, I’m a tough guy, I’ve had to get stitched up without anesthetic” any other various manly thoughts including the dislocation of both shoulders, a number of concussions and . . . . . I’m sure you get the picture, I have done dumb things in my life that have caused me pain.
So I suggested that we go through the beautification ritual of having Satan’s butthair thread rubbed all over our faces, and after she-who-must-get-head-skritches-and-foot-rubs stopped laughing so hard at me, agreed! She thought it would be so funny to watch that she even agreed to pay for my treatment, I’m assuming that its because she probably recorded it and it will be used against me as blackmail at a later date. Well, dear readers, I would like to say that everything went smoothly. I would like to say that I sat there and didn’t blink once (thats a technicalilty on account of the lady told me that I had to blink), and that I didn’t shed a single tear. I would like to say that……..
The whole experience took exactly 13 minutes and 28 seconds, I know, I counted. From the time I sat down in the chair and was attacked by a 5′ woman of undeterminate Pacific anstresty, she worked with the speed and precision that comes with years of practice. It was a blur of searing pain above my eyes (never a good place to have pain) and thread that would make a Little Big World fan jealous. While the intial treatment may have only taken so long, it felt like an eternity. Like a test in a subject that you swore you would study, but ended up playing Diablo II until 6 in the morning, it would not end. I believe she was pulling out the gray eyebrow hairs as well, its the only logical explaination.
When it was all said and done, I was changed forever. I was hoping that in time she-who-must-get-head-skritches-and-foot-rubs would be able to see me as the man I once was. I knew that I would not be able to look myself in the mirror for a while, until . . . . . holy hell, I just saw myself in the mirror, I look damn good. I look like I could almost be a model, you know if it weren’t for the gut, pasty whiteness and complete lack of long luscious locks on top of my head.