My mom and I indulged in manicures and pedicures over the weekend. I inherited my dry, dry skin from her and we both had cracked and bleeding cuticles from the weather, plus my dad was sick and she wasn’t in the mood to deal with his whining, so we went to the nail salon by my house.
The woman who sanded my feet and painted my nails kept peering anxiously at my eyebrows. “We do waxing here,” she offered.
“I just got them done,” I replied, which is actually fairly true; I got them done about a month ago with my friend B, and they’re in pretty good shape. Well, I think they are. Given their naturally caterpillar and unibrow appearance, I consider any type of arch and separation to be pretty good shape.
The woman hummed a little, still staring at my eyebrows. “You would look younger if you got them done again.”
I met a gym buddy in my kickboxing class a few weeks ago. One of those people you’re happy to spend time with at the gym and know absolutely nothing about other than the fact she, too, tries to sing along with Britney while doing roundhouse punches. You think I'm crazy, I got your crazy.
After class one day we were chatting while sucking down gallons of water. She commented that she wouldn’t be at the next class because her kid had a concert at school. “Oh, how old’s your kid?” I asked.
“12,” she replied.
“Wow,” I commented, thinking that the woman didn’t look old enough to have a two year old, much less an adolescent. She must have started when she was 9.
“I know,” she said, “I look younger than I am. But I’m 35.”
I suppressed the urge to ask what she uses on her skin, because she really does look 15 years younger.
The conversation continued and somehow, she mentioned that she thought I looked like I was in my mid-thirties as well.
Uh, not so much. About a decade off, actually. I’m 26.
And, finally, the topper. The guy-of-uncertain-sexual-orientation who gets my coffee at Starbucks and I have a little relationship. He calls me darling and slips me free drinks once in a while. I don’t tip every time, but when I do, I drop a tenner into the tip cup. We joke and laugh and commiserate at the insane early morning hours we both seem to work, him out of necessity and me because I like to leave work at 5:00 sharp and that sometimes means I need to get to the office at 6:45 in the morning.
This morning he asked if I wanted a double-shot in my latte.
“Nah,” I said. I’m trying to cut back on the caffeine.
“Really?” he asked, his artfully groomed eyebrows arching. “Because, darling, the bags under your eyes are big enough to carry groceries. You look tired.”
If anyone needs me, I’ll be at home with one of those puffiness-reducing gel masks, setting up my next waxing appointment and trying to find a cheap place to get a facial.