Ever since I fell asleep during yet another attempt to tame my hair and woke up with an ugly burn on my forehead, I have totally shunned beauty parlors. Make that parlors run by gays who can talk up a storm and categorize things and people into "chaka" and "bongga."
Last Friday, though, I put traumatic (beauty) experience aside. Friend A was getting married and there was a collective thought bubble if the gang could get me to go the extra mile. Me, whose idea of makeup is a thin film of sheer lipstick. Me, who signed up for elective woodworking and electrical wiring in high school and NOT cosmetology.
But while I could do away with dressing for the occasion, I could never resist a challenge. With Excruciatingly Thin (and Fashionista) Sister, I ventured into the path less traveled and came face to face with TWO nightmares: one who immediately went for my eyebrows and another who undid my ponytail, surveyed my hair and pronounced the dreaded "C" word.
Twenty or so minutes of facial assault--during which I thought up every possible way of exacting revenge--Nightmare One finally got out of harm's way and left me with my mirror image.
Only, it wasn't me.
Because Real Me doesn't have Bella Flores' eyebrows. And Real Me has frizzy, untamed hair. And Real Me would never make an appointment for a (re)bonding moment with Nightmares One and Two.