Some of us are burdened with an excess of eyebrow. It's just a fact of life that requires tough skin to withstand all the plucking and taunting of small children. (I am looking at you, Laurel of the preschool, making Lexi cry when you told the class she had 'callapitters' on her forehead. For shame.)
So. I pluck and I deal and occasionally I wax the suckers myself when Mad Men calls my name and I'm done with all this necessary grooming.
And until Saturday, I have been smug in my DIY efforts. That is until I used a new bigger strip of wax and broke one of the golden rules of the art of eyebrow maintenance: Thou shall not wax the same area twice in any one waxing period, you dope, or suffer you shall.
The swelling is down, but Zack still backed away from me in the morning, avoiding the scourge.
Greg was far kinder as I iced my wound, claiming that he could barely make out where I had manually extracted a pound of flesh from my eyelid, proving once again why he's just the guy for me.
Frida courtesy of Google; my eye courtesy of Zack.