To The Threading Technician I Cried In Front Of
To The Threading Technician I Cried In Front Of,
I am so, so sorry. I know this must be bad for your business — a girl sobbing in your client chair. Kameela’s Palace is the only threading salon that’s only ten minutes away and costs twenty five dollars to have my entire face threaded, so I would hate to ruin your businesses.
I usually don’t sob like this every time I have my eyebrows, cheeks, upper lip, chin, and neck threaded. I’ve grown accustomed to the rhythm of two strings twirling across my face, simulating the feeling of a dull knife scraping off a layer of skin. You should know that this incident is not a reflection of my pain tolerance. I’ve had hot wax slathered on my face, bleach burns across my upper lip, and metal tweezers tearing into skin instead of hair — two threads are nothing!
Yet here we are, hot tears running down my cheeks and mixing with the cool aloe vera gel you applied on my face. I was just as surprised as you were when my misty eyes — fresh from plucked nose hairs — turned into sobs. Something within my chest cracked like an unknown bone popping into place. What felt like a routine session turned into a suffocating spiral. I know this isn’t the exact answer you were looking for when you asked me, “Are you alright?”. To be honest, I’m trying to locate the answer myself.
Maybe it’s because I never remember making the decision to hate my body hair. The decision came to me like eye color. Puberty books described hair removal the same way as they did for menstruation. Razors were prescribed the same as pads — both used to clean up the mess that is women.
Maybe it’s the vulnerability of it all. I hand you my face for you to fix. You rip away the hair, while I brace my neck against the sticky back of the faux leather chair. There’s no escape because I volunteered and paid.
It could be the fact that I tried to distract myself with the idea of threading being used as a torture device. Not that I’m for torture, but I think the toughest of men would break if they had to endure five minutes of beauty rituals that women have been doing for centuries. Maybe the Catholic church could use threading in place of Confession — sins being twisted out of us as easily as unwanted upper lip hair.
Or maybe it’s the memory of seeing girls and their moms getting their nails done together, while my mom bought me a coupon for my next waxing session. Or the horror that flooded my chest when I first discovered a half-inch long hair sticking out from under my chin. Or it’s that I never thought that Bollywood music would underscore my public breakdown.
Amongst my dramatics, I appreciated your steadfast service. Thank you for asking me if I would like to take a break. Thank you for keeping your composure as I mouthed ‘no’ while stifling down another sob. Thank you for handing me a clump of tissues, so I could pull myself together at 10am on a Saturday. The truth is that it’s too late for a break. I’m an addict. Compliments on my complexion and smooth skin against pillow cases are my euphoria. There’s no rehab for what society commends.
Don’t worry if I’ll be back again. I’ll still make my monthly pilgrimage to your salon with other brown women to pay our indulgences for our melanin. You’ll still be my brow recommendation for anyone moving to LA, and I missed you more than some acquaintances that I couldn’t see in quarantine. You are a part of my self-care routine and my sanity.
So I hope you can accept my apology for bawling in your chair on a perfectly good morning. Please know that it’s not you — it’s just everything.
Your Forever Client,
Maddie
