It was the 8th grade “Moving Up” dance, and all my friends were doing it. That’s always how it starts, isn’t it? We were at the nail salon getting manicures and pedicures before the biggest night of our middle school lives. Next thing you know, my friends venture into the waxing room to get their eyebrows done. Eyebrows? Waxing? At the ripe young age of 13, I was entering entirely new territory. Ah, why not? I thought despite my mother’s prior protestations (strikingly similar to my first venture into shaving my legs, which was also against mom’s will during sleep away camp at 11). And thus began my fascination with eyebrows. I began meticulously plucking every day, tweezing at hairs that probably didn’t even exist. Now, my routine consists more of threading (Browhaus if you’re in New York, trust me) every couple of months and some maintenance tweezing in between. I guess I can bless the eyebrow gods for that. But a word to the wise: If your name is not Cara Delevigne and “Eyebrow King” Damone Roberts is not on speed dial, do some research and don’t trust your brows with just anyone. Unlike a haircut gone wrong that can manage with some tweaking, once you pluck out your brows, you’ll look, well frankly, like a weirdo until they grow back. The last thing you want is the dreaded “slutty eyebrows,” which resemble “surprised little sperm."
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