Que Sera Sera

You better call Tyrone:

I have a full head of thick, wavy, sometimes unruly hair, which is only charming when it’s on your head. Elsewhere on the body, this sort of hair is just annoying, so I have my brows professionally groomed every three weeks by a very flaky young woman named Sheila.

Up until recently, Sheila was a very harmless kind of flaky—she talked endlessly about her ex-husband and his teenage son and her new boyfriend and her mother, sometimes doubling the length of the session—but I didn’t mind, because under Sheila’s direction, my eyebrows became works of art. They made eye makeup application fun again.

But about a month ago, Sheila left the salon where she’s always worked, and no one told me until I showed up for my appointment. They offered to reschedule me with someone else, but I flashbacked to December, when I was a bridesmaid in a friend’s wedding and Sheila was out sick, so I went ahead and let some horrid woman wax away at my forehead until I was left with two thin, comic book half-circles where my eyebrows used to be.

“No, thank you,” I said, shuddering with the memory. I would find Sheila.

Sheila left a message on my machine two weeks later, leaving the number of her new place of employment, and her cell phone number as well. I rejoiced. I called. It was an answering service. They would page her. She would return my call. My eyebrows would be lovely again. I waited with bated breath, and increasingly furry brow.

I left my number. No return call. I tried again later that week. I left my work, home, and cell number. No return call. I called her cell phone, sat through a message that paused so the caller could recognize Led Zeppelin’s “Thank You” in the background, and left a pleading message to please, please, please for the love of God call me back.

Two more weeks passed.

I started to feel like I was in ninth grade, and I should wait for her to call me, but I really needed to talk to her, because what if she thought I didn’t like her and asked Megan to the homecoming dance instead? I mean, what if she didn’t ever return my calls and I ended up looking like Bert from Sesame Street?

Six weeks have passed since my canceled appointment, which put me at nine past due. Things are not pretty aroud here. There’s only so much I can do with my tweezers. Every morning, I pause before I apply mascara, wondering if it’s such a good idea to draw any attention to the upper half of my face.

Then yesterday, someone from Sheila’s new salon called. She apologized that Sheila had not called me back. Sheila had left town for a conference a week ago and not called her back, either. Frankly, we were both less than impressed with Sheila’s business conduct. She offered to schedule me with Tyrone.

“I don’t want to sound high maintenance or anything, but is he good? I mean, I know you that of course you have to say he’s good, but I’m a little gunshy because everyone else who has touched my brows who’s not Sheila has just butchered them.”

“Oh, he’s very good. He’s very Hollywood.”

Hollywood? Is this some sort of code word for gay? I didn’t get it, so I elaborated. “I just like them very natural—not too thin, just an arch. Very clean, you know?”

Then she said what I’m sure she thought would undoubtedly reassure me: “He’s very professional. He did a lot of the girls who competed in the Miss Oklahoma pageant last weekend.”

I am a broken, hirsute woman, so there was nothing left for me to do but wince, sigh, and make an appointment with Tyrone.

I have a feeling things are only going to get worse.

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