Tweezer Happy

I have a habit of being a little tweezer happy. My kids make fun of me saying my eyebrows are disappearing. I try and defend my actions but really I have no explanation. Maybe its just my love hate relationship with perfection.

Maybe it stems from my need for clear lines to be drawn. I cant say for sure. But every time I stand in front of my mirror in my 5x5 beach themed lavatory hideaway, I am inundated with the urge to tweeze.

I wasn't always a plucker. Not until my sister introduced me to the tweezers anyway. I used to have caterpillars resting on the folds of my brow bones and truthfully, I was quite fond of them.

Growing up I was the kid with a million faces. (not the schizophrenic kind) I was hard evidence there was a physical, tangible expression for every known emotion.

One year, when I was about 12 , my parents sent me to a church sleep away camp somewhere in the middle of Illinois. I hated every minute of it. I spent most of the time being sick because of the kitchen staff's inability to acknowledge my lengthy list of dietary limitations.

At the end of the two week stint in the middle of nowhere, when all my canteen money was sucked dry by a sneaky staff member for her cigarette stash, the only thing I had left to look forward to was the award ceremony on the last night before departure. Surely I could salvage some small bit of memory to pass down to the future generations that would follow me.

That night, the entire camp staff and campers piled into the mess hall for the ceremony. I sat at the table closest to the exit so I could receive my award humbly, and make my immediate getaway. Little did I know I would be leaving the mess hall minus my dignity.

The ceremony dragged on like all those ear piercing events have the tendency of doing. Since I was in the upper echelon of age brackets, we were three hours in when they finally called my bunk. I waited with patience and excitement for my chance at fulfillment.

Turns out, I was so busy trying to imagine how I would look standing on the stage, I almost missed them called my name.

“And the award for the craziest bunch of faces goes to....Emily Klein”

Wait what? Craziest faces? Not the bravest? Certainly all my solo trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night had to be recognized? Was I being mocked? Or was my collagen elasticity really a call for some kind of celebration?

I was so stunned I forgot all about the way I rehearsed my procession to the stage, and I stumbled up and ripped the blue ribbon from Sister Bernadette's holy fingers and returned to my seat to recalibrate.

Ever since that day, I developed a new appreciation for my ability to morph my face to match any given situation, considering I'm probably one of the only people to be able to merit such recognition. I like to think my eyebrows have played a role in this.

Somehow, I cant help but think the state of my changing faces has more to do with my confusion than my ability at mastering anything.

Nobody needs to know that though.

So I'm just going to keep on plucking as I see fit. After all, I have a reputation to keep up with.

Until next time, stay weird.