A recent tweet from the lovely Metalia said this: You know what’s depressing? Walking into a salon, and employee is all, “eyebrow?” and you’re thinking, “no, bitch, pedicure! PEDICURE!”

This totally made me laugh out loud, because I had a similar experience, which was incredibly horrifying and I believe it deserves a mention here, since hey, I like to humiliate myself.

Andrew and I went for a mani-pedi. OK, he just got a pedicure, as he is wont to do because he is SUPER STRAIGHT but has giant feet that need some TLC. I was there for the double treatment, and had decided to get my brows done as well, because I freaking HATE plucking my eyebrows. I was plucking mine the other day whilst sitting in the bathtub because the steam helps me (or so I like to think) and Andrew came in to chat with me. He sat down, thinking surely I could chat and pluck, but was instead assaulted by a barrage of sneezes, which is what happens every time I pluck. One hair, one sneeze. Andrew had never witnessed this joyous routine, and I’m pretty sure he thought about breaking up with me right about then. I’m not a quiet, dainty sneezer, like some are. I find mouse-like sneezes adorable because I am straight up frightening. So frightening, in fact, that a little boy in Target recently said, “What was that, you crazy lady?” upon hearing me sneeze. His mother apologized all over herself, and I was all, “No, seriously! It sounds crazy! I don’t blame him—I’m just glad he’s not crying!” So, when I have a ridiculous stream of sneezes, it’s a horrifically scary experience for all involved. It’s like the sound of a typical sneeze crossed with a scream and the screech of a dying cat. It’s horrid.

OK, are you following along? I hate plucking my brows, therefore, when I went for a manicure-pedicure, I decided to get them waxed. I mentioned my desire for the wax to the gentleman doing my nails, and he yelled something to the woman in charge of waxing. She wandered over.

“You want your mustache done?” she said, making a mustache with her index finger over her upper lip.

“Um, no. Just my brows. I don’t really have a mustache.”

And then, instead of responding, or trying to cover it, she laughed. A knowing, evil laugh that said, “You don’t think you have a mustache? RIGHT. RIGHT. You poor, poor girl. Your mustache is freaking massive, thick and curly and it’s practically TALKING TO ME RIGHT NOW.”

I totally let her wax my upper-lip.

For the record, I don’t have hair on my upper lip, OK? Like, very little. And what I do have is blonde hair. But you know what I do have now? TOTAL PARANOIA.

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