Around seventh grade, girls begin to transition from happy, dorky kid into moody, obnoxious monsters who want clothing and shoes and sparkly glitter makeup. We start shaving, considering heels, and ...plucking our eyebrows.
After some serious consideration, eleven or twelve year old me decided that it was time to handle the problem of my FACE.
I picked up what must have been my mother's tweezers and started in on my too-bushy browline.
I know when I'm defeated. I put the tweezers down just before the tears started streaming down my face and trudged to my mother's room. Surely a mom would know better, surely parents would have helpful advice to avoid the ludicrous amount of pain that comes with plucking your eyebrows.
Thanks a lot, MOM. Faced with such uselessness I turned to go when my dad piped up with what sounded like the best suggestion since ever!
What a genius! He couldn't possibly be joking! I immediately ran off to my bedroom to test out my superawesomesohelpful Dad's advice! It was sheer ingenuity and I couldn't believe my luck -- that Dad! What a guy! Real salt of the Earth!
I only had an electric razor because I was barely twelve and shaving with one of those crazy bladed things scared the life out of my mom. I figured it wouldn't matter, a razor's a razor right? I could finagle a way to shave just the underside of my browline and maybe that silly stuff in the middle and that's all I really needed. I would be super pretty and gorgeous and all the middle school boys would fall over themselves to be in love with me. My expectations were high. And I was sure this would work.
I ran back to my parents' bedroom in a tizzy of horror -- there wasn't any way any boy at my school would love me NOW!! This was a CATASTROPHE! I had a third of an eyebrow on one side and half of one on the other!
My dad helpfully asked what happened to my face.
Lesson Learned, Dad. Lesson LEARNED.