So, on Saturday morning, I used work as an excuse to head over to a friend’s house for the morning, laptop in tow. Michael and Sherry could spend some mother-and-son time catching up with each other, and I’d be able to catch up on some paper-grading, blogging, and friendly gossip.
My friend, Liz, was recovering from neck surgery, so I knew it would be a low-key and relaxing visit. Even better, Liz’s own mother, Nancy, was in town for two weeks to help out, so I knew that Liz and I would be able to empathize with each other regarding the mixed blessings and exasperations of hosting houseguests.
We chatted for a while about the frustrations of even the most pleasant visitors, and then Liz left me to work while she rested in bed. I graded a handful of my students’ final papers, and then turned to my blog. It was Friday—time to update my readers on how things were going with my BBCTG challenge. I still wasn’t ready to deal with the nutrition and weight-loss tasks, but task #2 had my attention. Here were my instructions: “Want to grow out your hair or try a new color or cut? Talk to your stylist and start experimenting now.”
This one proved to be a challenge. First of all, I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to do anything new with my hair. I liked my hair. Well, at least I remembered liking it before the no-mirrors project started. It’s naturally a nice medium-to-light-blond color with natural highlights. It’s pin-straight, fine, and there’s a lot of it, which makes it pretty easy to style (or not style, which was more typical for me, especially without mirrors!). I didn’t have much to complain about in the hair department. Why should I begin experimenting just because TheKnot.com said I should?
Of course, I did miss the small ways I’d typically experimented with my hair on a weekly basis. As a shower-at-night kind of gal, I’d typically woken up in the morning, peered into my bathroom mirror, assessed the state of affairs, and decided at that moment whether it would be a hair-up day, a hair-down day, a messy bed-head day, a sleek and smooth day, or some other variation in styling.
In other words, before my no-mirror days, my hair-styling habits were based on visual assessment. But now that I couldn’t see myself, it was ponytails served up all day, every day. There was nothing wrong with this look. It was simple and fast and I liked it. Still, I missed some of that “who knows what it’ll look like today!” spontaneity.
This made task #2 a bit more intriguing. Was there a way for me to have fun experimenting with my hair—in a way that gave me some creative pleasure—without looking in mirrors and without doing anything stupid or expensive? Getting a new haircut seemed foolhardy, since I couldn’t learn how to style it. New hair color was also axed, since I liked my natural color. And I certainly wasn’t interested in making a drastic change just to have something to write about on my blog. I was stumped.
I mentioned my predicament to Liz, who had a great idea. “Why don’t you check out one of those online makeover websites?” she suggested.
“Huh?” I asked, intrigued. I loved makeovers.
“I’ve never done it, but I know there are websites that let you upload a photo of yourself and then try on new hairstyles,” she explained.
A quick Google search landed me on a fantastic website filled with totally fun makeover technologies. Not only could I experiment with different hairstyles and colors (the site had hundreds of celebrity photos to help with this), but it also used some really great Photoshop-ish technology to help experiment with different makeup styles and shades. Within minutes I’d uploaded a plain ponytailed photo of myself (from before my no-mirrors project) and was experimenting away!
Inspired by TheKnot.com’s suggestion to “grow out your hair,” I found a way to morph teen phenom Ashley Tisdale’s Rapunzel-esque locks onto my face. The suggestion to “try a new color” was really fun, especially when I discovered that Tila Tequila’s redheaded bob looked fantastic on me. To try a new cut, Anna Faris’s platinum bob with short bangs fit the bill.
It was rad. I felt a huge endorphin surge from all of the creativity, and I surprised myself by loving the image of myself with Tila Tequila’s coppery shade. I’d always thought of myself as having a redhead’s stereotypically fiery personality, and now I knew I could actually pull off the look if I ever felt so inclined. I was in no rush to try it out in real life, but that’s what made it so fun.
By the time I’d finished up my experimenting and written up a blog post about it, it was time to head back home. I met up with Michael and his mom just in time for us to go to a baseball game at the Giants’ stadium. Our place was only a few blocks from the ballpark, so the whole neighborhood was out and about. It felt very festive; a perfect opportunity for some “non-wedding fun.”
I should mention that Michael’s father, Doug, and Sherry are insane baseball fans. How insane? Let’s just say that when it came time for us to pick a wedding date, the Ackermanns declared that there were only two weekends between the months between April and October 2011 in which they would be available to travel. Luckily, after a bit of “you would miss my wedding for a minor-league baseball game?!?!” cajoling on Michael’s part, they eventually came around. I digress. Anyway, Sherry was really excited for the game and had generously offered to purchase our tickets and all of our snacks and drinks.
Compared with the Ackermanns—well, compared with pretty much everyone else in America—I’m not much of a baseball fan. In my opinion, there are too many rules and the games last far too long. Sure, I’d loved watching A League of Their Own when I was a kid, but—let’s be honest—that full-length film was about an hour shorter than an average nine innings, and a lot more dramatic (not to mention feminist-friendly)! In middle school my whole family went to a Cardinals game together, and I’d ended up being captured on the Jumbotron reading the novel I’d brought along. I didn’t even realize it at the time (too engrossed in Nancy Drew), but my image had been broadcast to all the local stations, so I heard all about it the next day from the kids at school. It was not exactly my ticket to sitting at the cool kids’ table at lunch.
The Giants game ended up being more fun than I’d expected. It was really cold out, so we all had to cuddle up to stay warm.
“Geez, I’m freezing!” I said, snuggling into Michael. He was seated between Sherry and me, prepared to be the moderator of any debates that sprung up.
“Must be that global warming, eh? Feels more like global cooling, if you ask me!” Sherry chided, raising her eyebrows for impact.
“Mom, for the last time, global warming is not a liberal conspiracy. I refuse to have this debate again,” Michael interjected, saving me from any involvement.
Freezing or not, the beer was flowing, and by inning six I started feeling pretty buzzed and relaxed. I decided to cut myself off before I felt dizzy or said something liberal. Sherry seemed similarly intoxicated, but took a slightly different approach.
“It’ll be last call in a minute!” she announced a bit slurrily. Her southern accent was thicker than usual. “Come on! We’ve gotta get in line before they stop serving!”
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I responded. Michael said he’d have another beer, so Sherry went off on her own to get them.
“Should you go with her? She seems a little tipsy,” I said to Michael.
“Oh, she’ll be fine!” he answered back. “Besides, it’s nice to have a minute alone.” I was happy when he leaned in and put his arm around me.
Minutes later Sherry was back with not two, but four jumbo beers. “Two for one!” she explained, clearly proud of the bargain. I tried to refuse, but Sherry insisted. My elementary school D.A.R.E. program hadn’t prepared me for this situation. I’d have to be scrappy. I took a few sips of the beer and then poured at least half of it out onto the ground when I thought nobody else was looking.
The three of us made our way out of the stadium after the Giants ultimately lost. Michael and I both took one of his mom’s arms to keep her steady on her feet. The chemotherapy she’d
gone through during her breast cancer treatment had weakened her bones, and we didn’t want a small stumble to land her in the ER with a broken foot or worse.
Before we arrived home, Sherry started getting a little emotional. We’d just finished crossing a street in downtown San Francisco when Sherry stopped in her tracks, took Michael’s hands in her own, and said tearily, “You are the most precious thing in my life. I love you so much. You are my precious boy, my precious boy!” She next turned to me and continued, “Kjerstin, I just love you so much, too. You love my precious boy. Michael is my soul mate, my soul mate! I know you’ll take care of him for me.”
Soul mate? I looked up past Sherry to see Michael’s face, his eyes pleading with me to just go with the flow. Sigh. All I could muster up in response was, “I love you, too, Sherry. Now let’s get you home, okay?”
Later that night, after we’d tucked his mom into bed on the futon, I caught Michael’s eye while we were brushing our teeth. “Soul mate, eh?” I whispered, eyebrows raised. I may have been feeling a bit competitive. You’re MY soul mate, not hers! shouted my catty psyche.
“Oh, give it a rest, Kjerstin,” he begged sternly. “She used to say the same thing about her parakeet until it died. She’s had a few beers. It didn’t mean anything. Besides, you know she was just trying to tell us she loved us.”
“Fine,” I snapped, “but I still think it was a weird thing to say.” I knew I was being ungrateful for Sherry’s generosity that day, but the selfish side of me—my closeted introvert, who also happened to be a raging feminist, a believer in global warming, and a surprisingly possessive fiancée—was aching for life to get back to normal.
Sherry headed back home the next morning. It was nice to have time to myself again, but I had to admit that—save for the soul-mate thing—her visit had gone much better than I’d expected. In fact, I’d really enjoyed most of it. Had I completely misjudged Sherry?
• • •
I DON’T THINK ABOUT MY EYEBROWS VERY OFTEN. AS A NATURAL blonde, I’m actually pretty lucky in the eyebrow department because my eyebrows are just dark enough to show up on my face (so long as my complexion remains within the pallor-to-paler range). Yet they aren’t dark enough for it to be particularly noticeable if I haven’t kept them perfectly groomed. A bit of light tweezing every few weeks and I’m in good shape. It’s not like my eyebrows are part of my signature look or anything like that. They just don’t suck and don’t require much work. As with finally having good skin, having decent eyebrows is something I’ve taken for granted and, therefore, rarely think about.
This was true until I spent a few months without looking in the mirror. At first I didn’t think about my eyebrows at all, which was kind of nice. But after no tweezing every few weeks (or—ahem—at all), this changed abruptly. One day I caught myself mindlessly running a finger across my brow bone and realized that it felt like I was, instead, caressing Michael’s stubbly jawline. Uh-oh! Had I been channeling Frida Kahlo without realizing it? Was it time to call Groucho Marx so he could swing by and pick up his eyebrows?
“What’s up with my eyebrows?” I asked Michael in an accusatory tone. This is why I didn’t trust him with these things. He had no eye for detail!
“Yeah, they’re looking a little fuzzy, but I just figured you were growing them out or something,” he responded sheepishly.
“Growing them out?! Are you crazy? What did you think, that I was going to French braid them for the wedding?!” I shot back.
“Sorry! They aren’t that bad. Do you want me to help you pluck them?” he offered.
The idea truly frightened me, so I declined as graciously as possible: “You’ve got to be kidding me! No. Fudging. Way.” (But I didn’t say fudging.)
“Well, I think you look beautiful even if your eyebrows are kind of wonky!” Michael insisted. Typical.
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I grumbled. For all I knew, I’d become known as “that lady with the crazy eyebrows” to the rest of the world. I knew, realistically, that it couldn’t be that bad, but I still wanted to take care of things ASAP so I could get back to not thinking about my eyebrows.
Enter TheKnot.com’s BBCTG challenge, which commanded, “Ever consider having your eyebrows professionally shaped? Why not? It’s your wedding. Now’s the time to try it.” Indeed. It was my wedding (or, at least, it would be in a hundred days!).
After reading through a number of Yelp reviews, I decided to try a “brow bar” that had set up shop in the Union Square Macy’s store. I figured I’d mitigate some risk by going to a place that specialized in eyebrows. “Good enough is good enough!” I repeated to myself, mantra-style, as I picked up the phone to make an appointment. “Practice trust!”
And so I traipsed down to Union Square and ducked into Macy’s. I ventured into the brow bar, settled into a stool at the “bar,” and anxiously awaited my fate. What kind of bar doesn’t serve cocktails? I mused. A stiff drink would have helped take the edge off the pain that awaited me.
Within minutes, a cute aesthetician with auburn hair and perfectly groomed brows introduced herself and started pulling a kit of goodies out from under the bar. I watched as she lined up her torture implements one by one: tweezers, hot wax, teeny strips of fabric, makeup remover, some kind of soothing lotion, a few makeup compacts, and . . . a handheld mirror.
I quickly blurted out, “Oh, sorry! I can’t look in the mirror. It’s a blog thing, a project I’m doing. Sorry for the short notice!”
She paused for a second, and then said, “Wow! No mirrors? That’s cool! You must really trust me, huh!”
Good question. Did I? Could I? I didn’t; at least, not completely. But what else was I to do, other than letting my brows grow beyond recognition? (Okay, admittedly this wouldn’t have been the end of the world, but professional brow shaping was on BBCTG list!) I couldn’t very well groom my own eyebrows without looking, and a professional aesthetician with perfect brows seemed like a surer thing than a fiancé whose idea of “good enough” was quite different from my own. So I responded by saying, “Yeah. Well, I read that you guys usually do a great job, so I figured I would be in good hands!” Besides, I had a self-fulfilling prophecy to disrupt.
I closed my eyes and pursed my mouth as the aesthetician got to work with her bounty of tools. It all happened very fast, and after a few snaps of pain (which felt exactly like she was pulling a teeny-weeny Band-Aid from my skin) she was done; my brows had been cleansed, waxed, tweezed, soothed, and made up with concealer (“to mask the redness”) and brow pencil (“so they really POP!”).
I wanted to take a look, but resisted the urge. Instead, I ran my fingers across my face. I saw the aesthetician flinch, probably worried that I was smudging off the carefully applied concealer. Whatever. How else was I supposed to check? I could feel that (1) my brows were mostly still there and (2) the skin above and below them was smooth and soft, though a bit tender.
BBCTG task #14: done!
• • •
THE THIRD WEEK OF JUNE BROUGHT A SECOND SET OF VISITORS, this time from my side of the family. My sister and her longtime boyfriend, Nick, were hosting a couples’ wedding shower for Michael and me that Saturday, and my parents and younger brother had decided to fly into town for the party. Even though it felt as though I’d barely gotten back to my normal routines after Sherry’s visit, it was nice to be able to spend time with my own family and friends. The fact that my parents had decided to stay in a hotel helped take the pressure off as well!
I was excited to hammer out some wedding plans with help from my mom. In addition to finalizing our guest list and ordering the invitations, I wanted help with my wedding-day beautifying plans. According to TheKnot.com’s BBCTG list, it was high time that I started worrying about my wedding makeup. Item #8 suggested that “3–4 Months Before” my wedding, I ought to “Make consultation appointments with potential makeup artists. Be sure to take pi
ctures, then analyze them. Do your features stand out? Do you look like you’re wearing a mask?” Task #9 involved deciding on a makeup artist and then booking “him/her for your wedding date.”
I was mightily pleased that TheKnot.com was enlightened enough to use both male and female pronouns when referring to makeup artists, but less pleased by the assumption that I (and all brides) had both the interest and the bucks to pay for professional makeup artistry on the big day, plus multiple trial appointments to weed out the options. I had been planning on some makeup help for myself, as a way to make a mirror-free wedding day less stressful, but I couldn’t help noticing that, once again, the BBCTG list had communicated normalcy, rather than choice, on the topic of bridal over-consumerism.
I decided to have my makeup professionally done for the couples’ shower as a way to “try out” a makeup artist. Since I couldn’t “take pictures, then analyze them,” I’d scheduled one appointment for myself and another for my mom. I wanted us to spend some time together, and I wanted her opinion on the end result. I was also secretly hoping that my mom would help pay for the makeup trial, since it cost $50 (and would cost another $150 on my actual wedding day!).
The experience itself was luxurious, and the makeup artist—whose own makeup looked natural and lovely, I thought—was incredibly sweet and personable. After almost an hour of dabbing various brushes into various pots and compacts and then onto my face, I felt optimistic about the results. It took me only five minutes to put on my own makeup without a mirror, so I figured I ought to look amazing after all the extra effort, time, and talent. The makeup artist stepped back to look at her work, smiled with a satisfied sigh, and squealed, “Oooh, you look soooo great!” Sometimes it was easy to practice trust.
My mom nodded, smiling. (Though, in hindsight, I admit that the nod wasn’t particularly vigorous and the smile wasn’t exactly glowing.)
I happily scampered off to have my hair styled on the other side of the salon, and my mom sat down to have her own makeup done. I bet I look fab! I remember thinking.
Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall Page 12
