I stared at my reflection in the mirror one last time before going out. It was one of those magnifying mirrors that amplified every pore and imperfection on your face, and while my cavernous pores and blotchy skin were painfully obvious, the only thing I could focus on were my eyebrows: thick in some areas, sparse in others, with stray hairs coming in at every angle. I suddenly felt embarrassed for anyone who had seen me and my brows in such a tragic state. I looked like a wolverine who had somehow evolved to learn how to contour and highlight. I knew right then that it was time. My brows needed an intervention.
I called my eyebrow lady — a small, frail Asian woman who I have trusted with my brows for the past three years. She told me her name at our first appointment together but I forgot, and now we’re too far into this relationship to ask. I wasted no time asking her when her next available appointment was, and considering this was a Friday, she didn’t have a slot for me until Wednesday night. I begged and pleaded with her to find me an earlier time, telling her this was an emergency and that if I went any longer looking like this, I might start scaring small children. I even invoked our long history of friendship (careful not to set myself up for failure by not letting her know that I still don’t know her real name after three years) but she was booked straight through the weekend, off on Monday, and booked all day Tuesday, and Wednesday was booking quickly. At this point, I’m mentally kicking myself for singing her praises all over my sorority Facebook page and to anyone who ever complimented my eyebrows. What can I say, she’s a brow genius. Except now my good deed has backfired and I can’t get an appointment for a whole five days. She gave me her blessing to go somewhere else if I really couldn’t wait, that saint of a woman, but I begrudgingly set the appointment for Wednesday at 8 p.m.
Five more days, just five more days. You can make it five more days, I thought to myself. No one’s even going to notice, right?
I went out that night looking to score some peen, but came home later that night defeated and empty-handed. I thought I looked good — I was wearing a sheer-ish top with a black bralette purposefully showing, my favorite shorts that were just a smidgen too small, and heels that made my ass look like it was propped up on a silver platter. I spent over an hour putting on my makeup, and I was actually having a good hair day for once in my life. Why wasn’t I getting any attention?
I pondered this as I sat secluded in my room over the next five days, only leaving when it was absolutely necessary. By the time Wednesday rolled around, I fully looked like Eugene Levy’s little sister. I threw on my biggest sunglasses and drove straight to my appointment, only taking them off when I sat in my eyebrow lady’s chair. When I removed my sunglasses from my face, I swear I heard her gasp. She went straight to work and I winced through the pain, knowing that once this was over, I would look like a normal human again and not Chewbacca.
My eyebrow lady worked her magic and after a long and painful half hour, I walked out of her office looking like a new woman. As I made my way to the front of the salon to pay, a male hairdresser (who I swore was gay) gave me a double take. He didn’t even say “Ooohh girl you better werk!!” or any other drag-esque saying. He just stared me down and almost looked.. interested? I brushed it off and kept going, but I swear I could still feel his eyes on me as I walked away.
It was dollar beer night at my favorite bar, and while I didn’t drink beer, it always drew a big crowd and tons of guys. I went home and got ready real quick, not even bothering to change, and met my friends at our usual spot. The door guy checking ID’s stumbled over his words as he asked for mine, barely even giving it a glance. I went up to the bar to order a vodka soda, and when the bartender gave it to me, he said whatever I want for the rest of the night was on the house. I was confused, but I didn’t argue because I just paid a nice Asian lady an obscene amount of money to remove hair from my face.
I didn’t even make it five feet without a guy stopping me to chat. He was cute, buff, and way out of my league. Why was he talking to me of all people?
I talked with him for awhile before leaving to go find my friends, but not with his number in my phone and a promise to find him later that night (wink wink). I got stopped twice along the way from guys equally or even more attractive than the first, and I swear I thought I was in an alternate universe. These kinds of guys talking to me, the girl who’s always described as the one with a “good personality”? Impossible. Inconceivable. Unbelievable. Except it was possible, and it was happening right now, to me, as I was wearing Nike shorts and a white shirt with red marinara stains on it. I kept thinking that maybe these guys were just trying to use me to get to my hotter friends, but to my own surprise, they wanted me. I went to this exact bar last week and got stepped on at least seven times, but today I was the center of attention. The only thing that changed from then until now was getting brows done. Can brows really make that much of a difference? I didn’t even have a chance to answer my own question before another guy showed up and started vying for my attention.
Was I maybe a hot girl now?
Before this night, I had been in a severe dick drought. I’m talking months without so much as catching a single finger. I was about to start shopping for a vibrator (which, let’s face it, I should probably do anyways) when everything suddenly changed. I had four guys dying to take me home with them. Every single one of them was stupidly attractive and I couldn’t choose. I blindly picked one and gave the other three my number.
I scurried off to my dick appointment and let me tell you, I was not disappointed. I’ll spare you the dirty deets, but it was the best sex of my entire life.
Until the next night.
And then the next.
And the night after that.
Every night after I got my eyebrows done, I got laid. Some repeats, some new ones, but I didn’t go a single day without dick for a very, very long time. It literally rained orgasms for 40 days and 40 nights. I had peen flying at my from every direction. Like any insecure girl, I asked these guys what they liked about me. They said normal things, like my eyes, my boobs, my smile, but I knew what it really was. Without the shade from two tall bushes on my face, guys could see me for who I truly was.
At first, it was fun and exciting to have all this male attention. But after a while, it became too much. I think I actually started to chafe. I was getting laid too often, as if that was a thing. But it was a thing, and it was happening to me, of all people. I kept going, though, because why waste this precious gift? Who knew how long it would take for these guys to realize I was actually an ugly troll? So I kept getting laid — over and over and over again, remembering to count my blessings each and every time.
And then six weeks flew by in a flash and I was back to being a celibate Chewbacca. .