Thread it!

What the Code says about: Threading

Today I finally got the nerve to hit up Ziba Beauty, which I have been wanting to try for a couple months now but quite frankly, never had the guts to walk up to a kiosk in the mall, lay on my back and have a stranger loop thread through her teeth and systematically yank the misplaced hairs from my brows like I'm some circus freak on display.  Some people may just not care, but when did it become socially acceptable to pulck and prune our bodily hair in public? You just don't see people pulling up to a booth to have their toe nails trimmed, although, most malls these days are equpped with a nail salon which hopefully doesn't have the aroma of fried octopus emanating through the halls (this is from experience, I don't know why the staff insists on heating up their sea creature lunch while customers are trying to enjoy a pedi - that's just poor business sense if you ask me.)  But anyway, I decide to go to an actual Ziba Store, because I have been seeing ads for this place all over Groupon and Living Social, and the other day when Bryan and I went on our usual weekly Yogurtland date, I saw an advertisement in the window for $5 brown threading.  I figured it couldn't be that bad.  After all, beauty is pain, and I have braved what some would never consider all for the sake of pulchritude.  I walk in, and a stylish flamboyant, perfectly-manscaped receptionist tells me it will be about 5 minutes.  


My nerves begin to spasm as I wait in anticipation of the affliction awaits me.  Within minutes I know exactly what kind of misery smooth epidermis entails.  I wince with each systematic pull of the thread.  Coincidentally her name is Sumi, phonetically "sue me," which is something I am very much considering at this point.  I look in the  mirror, and within 4 minutes, I am amazed at the results.  Clean lines, nice shape.  So I stupdily reply, with sweat beads forming on my upper lip, and dents on my stomach from digging my own nails into myself so deeply to forget about the pain, can you do my lip too?


Those words should have never left my mouth.  I know full well how much torture encompasses a $10 lip wax, but words cannot express how much discomfort and acute shrilling pain radiated through my being during each peacock like head bob Sumi used to make that tiny area of my face fuzz free.  After the misery was over, I looked in the mirror, and though I saw a few blond stragglers, I didn't dare ask for more.  It was just not the way I wanted to spend my Friday evening anymore.  So I paid, left, and went home to my husband to tell him all about it.

Mid-description, I realized...Men want Hot wives, but they don't want to hear about how it happens.  They want to believe that we are born this way.  Completely hair free in every place we should be, and cheerfully and zestfully fresh faced after a 12 hour work day (note: keeping a little cover up and blush in my purse is not just to add depth to the lining).  But maybe this is why men always seem to abide by the age old unspoken rule to never look in a woman's purse, or at the receipts in the bag for the matter.  Just go with it.  Beautiful Wife = Happy Wife.  And Happy Wife = Happy Married Life!