Inked

I don’t understand the allure of tattoos.  Why desecrate one’s body?  Our bodies are a miracle held together by the largest organ, skin.  Best to stay natural.  But tattoos are common now, so I try to keep an open mind.

Except when someone posts a picture of a guy with all sorts of lines tattooed on his face, with a story about how he can’t get a job. Right.  (Google facial tattoos and prepare to be shocked.)

On the other hand, I started noticing other peoples’ eyebrows––mainly that other people have brows.  Mine seemed to be disappearing.  Then ads for permanent makeup jumped off magazine pages toward me.

Perhaps it was age, perhaps a chicken pox scar from when I was seven, but for whatever reason, my brows had become sparse.  Oh yes, of course I could use a pencil, but it’s difficult to color within the lines when the lines are missing.

Recently, when entering a restaurant with a [very conservative] friend, I noticed the hostess’s eyebrows were solid black paint.  I couldn’t see a hair.  And when I commented on that, I learned that my friend had her brows tattooed years ago.   “The color fades,” she said. “They use vegetable dyes.”  I had no idea.

I called a nearby spa with good reviews, and went in for a consult.  It’s a small place, two rooms dedicated to various sorts of beautification.  I liked the artist – conservative, cautious, very informative about what to expect.  So I did it––I got inked––on Tuesday.  Only for new eyebrows, you understand.

She warned me, “The color will look too dark. Don’t be alarmed. It will peel and fade to the right color. It might look blotchy for a while.”

Back at home, I look in the mirror.  Wow, it’s dark.  When my husband walks in, I warn him because I don’t want him to be startled. (I don’t know why, though, he doesn’t pay attention to how I look anyhow, and never would say anything negative.)

Wednesday, one day later.  I spend the whole day getting used to my new look.  I think the color goes a little too far down at the tail ends.

Thursday.  My neighbor seems to like it, but then again she is thirty years younger than I am.  She says that now my “eyes pop.”  I’m starting to like it.  The ends might be OK too.

Friday.  We go to Camden Center dancing in the afternoon, like we do every Friday.  No one says anything.  Even though I’m wearing a casual T-shirt and capris, I feel prettier than usual.  It must be the brows.

Saturday.  Big chunks of brown are falling off and my eyebrows look fringe-y.  The tattooer was right about the blotchy.  I don’t feel pretty and I’m glad we’re not dancing today.

A day or two later, when all the excess color peels off, the brows are good.  Even I can hardly tell that I had anything done.  I buy a new dark pencil for those occasions I might want to glam up, until I go back to the spa for a touch-up in six weeks.

Now I have nice brows that no one notices.  I think I did the right thing.

No, I don’t have a picture.  Take my word for it, and pay attention the next time you see me.