<

I have the utmost respect for the people who have chosen to dedicate their lives to making us kinky-headed, hirsute, pasty-fleshed, dimpled-assed behemouths palatable for the general public. And to lie me down on a comfy massage table, blindfold me lay a warm lavender-scented cloth over my eyes, and tell me what a beautiful brow I have in the process? My God, you are an angel.

That having been said, I had a weird thought while I was lying on that table, having my face plucked clean like a fancy hairless cat. What leads someone to be a professional plucker? I know the obvious connection: perfect career for someone who couldn't quite cut it in the dominatrix/pain infliction field. But that's far too simple and demeaning.

And then I had another thought. I know someone - and I think we all know someone like this - who cannot keep her hands off the grossest, most awful things the human body produces. This person I know, I have seen her thrill in squeezing of blackheads that don't belong to her. Got a sunburn? Call her when you start peeling, because she really wants to be the one to grab that wrinkle of dead skin at your waist and carefully pull it until it reaches your neck in one full sheet.

While she has made a successful career for herself in a field that doesn't involve pus and plucking, I think she might have missed her calling, a line of work that would truly fulfill her. She could have made a fortune with a pair of tweezer and a vat of hot wax.

I think my plucker might have been able to read these thoughts while she worked. And while I didn't mean them in a malicious manner at all, I think she might have taken them as they weren't intended.

This is my newly-shaped brow:

Lovely, no?

Look closely at the far left edge of my brow.

Now, look at the far right edge of the right eyebrow:

My eyebrows, they are to the extreme. I rock the mike like a vandal. Light up the stage and wax my brow like a candle.