On my lunch today, I decided to visit Threader Extraordinaire, Natasha. Natasha threads my face. Yep, eyebrows, upper lip, chin, cheeks, everywhere. Now, I’ve been waxing for years, and usually when you tell the waxer you want your face done, they do eyebrows, lip and chin. Not dear, sweet, face ripper Natasha. She does my WHOLE face. Until I felt the tiny peach fuzz hairs being ripped from my face, I didn’t even know I had tiny peach fuzz hairs there to begin with…like my earlobes. I love threading so much more because it doesn’t irritate my face like wax does. I do think it’s more annoying though. At least with wax, your hair is ripped off in one fluid motion, not threading. It’s more like making a pass two or three times. Yowza! But, a woman has to do what a woman has to do for beauty’s sake. Don’t try and deny it, you know you got a few stray hairs, and if you aren’t already doing something about them, you really need to. Oh, but please, don’t bleach any facial hair. Good God. I worked with a woman once who had a nasty moustache and she died it with facial bleach! What’s worse than a dark moustache? One that is bleached! She looked like she had blond whiskers like a walrus. Poor thing.

Oh, but this is not the “Oh. Hell. No.” of the story.

I walk into India Bazaar where I get threaded…and it’s actually just that, a bazaar: threading area, Indian grocery store, Indian clothing store, Indian Restaurant, and who do I see?

You will never guess it. I about died. A shot adrenaline coursed its way through my body as I “Jason Bourne’d” the situation and tried to plan my escape route before HE looked up.

I was face to face with Dickhead-Gym Rat-Chris from earlier in the week????

Cue scary psycho music: EEK! EEK! EEK!

“FUCK!!!! Oh for the love of Jesus, please do not look up. Shit, this aisle is blocked! Oh my God…he’s almost done, I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!”

Just as he is finishing his transaction at the register, the aisle roadblock moves his ass and I’m just about to skate by when Chris looks up!!!!!!! I can feel him staring at me as I’m walking by him. It’s all slow motion of course, at least it feels that way, and again I am begging God, the Universe, Mother Nature to please open up a hole and swallow me.
Now I can tell out of my peripheral vision that he is staring at me, and I know he doesn’t know me per se, but I know he knows that I look familiar. In comes Natasha and saves the day by swooping me into her room and closes the door.

Seriously though, what the hell are the chances I’d see the douche bag again, and of all places, in the Indian Bazaar?

Maybe God is telling me I need to get my fat ass back to the gym.


Miss M! said...

Small world! It could have been worse though - have you ever seen people getting threaded in the middle of the freaking MALL???

Samara Link said...

Such a small world.

Anonymous said...

Wow...too weird!