Channeling Amidala

An unfortunate incident happened to me today. So unfortunate (and embarrassing), in fact, that I considered not sharing it. However, the part of me that loves a good unfortunate and humiliating story overruled the part of me that feels the need to crawl under a rock for a few days. So, I'm sharing.

I got my eyebrows waxed for the first time this afternoon. Don't laugh yet (the unfortunate part is yet to come). I've never been particularly bothered by my eyebrows; I mean, I'm not up to Frida Kahlo standards or anything. But my mom was getting hers done anyway, and since I tend to like doing little girly spa-type things every once in awhile (ex: my nail color changes frequently), I thought I'd give it a try as well.

The actual waxing part was fine. What I didn't realize, however, is that the phrase 'getting your eyebrows waxed' actual stems from the word 'wax,' which means a hot, melty substance that is swirled onto an oversized Q-tip and applied to your brow line. Then, a strip of paper is placed onto the searing wax and ripped away suddenly, leaving you lacking in small hairs and wishing you were lacking in throbbing pain.

Okay, okay; it wasn't really that bad. The bad part was when I got into the car and flipped down the mirror to check out my newly-groomed eyebrows. What I noticed instead was that there were bright red burns shaped strangely similar to the smears of wax that had been rubbed in the exact same places about ten minutes ago. Three burns total: Between the brows, and below each one.

First Thought: Ow.
Second Thought: I look kind of like Queen Amidala (except I didn't really)
Third Thought: Oh, I'm going to have fun walking around the mall like this.

And I did have fun. Since the following shopping trip was necessary and unavoidable, I just kept my head down and followed my mom from store to store. The whole time I was praying that I wouldn't see anyone I know.
I saw two people I know, of course.

The humor came in the dressing room. Trying on a shirt: "Okay, Mom. I'm going to cover my forehead with my hand. Just focus on my eyes down. How does it look?"

Despite the eventual okay-ness and fun-ness, however, I'm still hoping that I wake up tomorrow looking normal. While I'm clearly not beyond explaining the situation to certain coworkers, I'm not sure I can take a full shift of curious looks.
Queen Amidala may be ashamed of my cowardice, but after all, I don't have a closet full of epic headdresses to distract from my brow.