I have two smooth grooves across my pointer fingers where the thread rests, always taut and at the ready. The women here do a greater volume of business, really will take anyone who walks in without a second glance. But there’s only a certain sort of eyebrow I want to work on. I’m not interested in simply maintaining the shape someone else has put forth, tugging the tiny hairs out at the roots with two twists of my hands. What I want are the bushy disasters, the complete threading infants who come into the store under a blanket of eyebrows so thick I can barely tell when they’re looking in my direction. These are the ones I shepherd to my chair, almost without a word, and then begin my diagnosis. Are they a happy person? Pessimistic? Dating? Scholarly? I can feel all of this from tracing my hands alone their brow bones. I tell them to shut their eyes, and I go to work, the thread humming and spinning so quickly that they’re transformed before they can sit back in the chair. I don’t even give them a mirror – they don’t need it. They can feel the perfection instantly, and reward me with extravagant tips and murmurs of referral. The thread returns to resting position, still buzzing with stolen electricity.
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- The Huntington Ladies’ Book Club – February Meeting
- Pickle the Cheetah
- Karen the Personal Trainer
- Morton the Worm at the Usury Office
- My 5 Favorite Musicals and Why, By Carla Cioca:
- Mumu the Irrelevant Mime
- Tiny Tim – Post Revisted
- Ten Prior Moments that led Jenna to this Point:
- The O. Henry Affair
- Ben’s Night Out