Before flying down to Florida, I had planned a hair cut — a definitive whacking of about 9 or 10 inches of perfectly good ginger hair. Texts and pictures were sent back and forth between myself and The Saint, the girlfriend of Baby Jesus. It was going to be a girly bonding experience. I am not a girly kind of chick and this was a big deal. But then, The Saint took it farther.
After the successful hair cut, I was fed — which is always a good thing — and then kidnapped by Baby Jesus and The Saint. I may not have been tied up, I did willingly get into the truck, but once we arrived at our destination, I was not allowed to leave. I was held against my will and my forehead was violated. Repeatedly.
I am a red head, as I’ve mentioned before. Of all the issues that comes with, one of the positives is that I never have to worry about my eyebrows. You can’t see them. They are there, they function as they should, but you rarely see them and I never think of them. Apparently, The Saint put quite a lot of thought into those eyebrows and decided that they needed to be ripped out by the roots. And then, as a further insult, dyed.
I was put into a chair and told to slump down, then a strange man wearing entirely too much cologne and gold jewelry loomed over me and used an innocent looking thread to inflict a surprising amount of pain. Does he just run over to the local craft store for this stuff? Or is it special S&M thread that he has to order from a shady website? How does the world’s sewing community feel about their artistic medium being used as a torture device in the name of beauty? And why wasn’t I given a safe word, for God’s sake?
When Mr. Cologne leans back to inspect his work, I lay there slightly sweaty and a little swollen. I’m telling myself to relax, it wasn’t so bad now that the smelly stranger was no longer touching me. It’s over. I can leave. I will heal and this will all be a funny story.
And then I was betrayed. Again. The Saint, who up until now I considered a friend, informed him that the abused eyebrows needed “tinted”. What fresh hell is this? Ever dutiful in his sadistic pursuits, this bejeweled man slathered henna on my brows and then pranced off to oversee his Minions of Maltreatment.
I was slumped there, admitting defeat as Baby Jesus and The Saint chuckled and took pictures. What was I to do? Run screaming from my captors into the great unknown with a reddened forehead and some medieval dye on my poor brow nubs? Nope. Just sit there, wait this out and plot revenge.
When time was up, the henna was wiped off and I was sat up to admire the transformation. Admiration was not my first thought. I looked like Gargamel — the bad guy from the Smurfs. I couldn’t keep my cool any longer and just said NO as loudly as possible. If I had a rape whistle, I would have been blowing that thing until my lips went numb. A person can’t be expected to go from invisible brows to dark ones in a matter of moments and just adjust. That’s not the way the human psyche works. The Saint finally figured out a happy medium, realized she now had a very angry ginger on her hands — I am assuming my newly darkened eyebrows just enhanced the scowl on my freckled face — and ushered me out of the Temple of Torment.
No, the pain was not exceptional, I will survive. I am not a huge wimp. But the damage to my spirit may be irreparable.