The abomination that is my forehead

If ever there were a day when I wished that the bowl cut bangs my mother forced upon me as a child were back in fashion, that day is today.

Me. Bowl Cut. Circa 1987.

It all started several weeks ago. I noticed a few tiny hairs on either side of my upper lip were formulating a plan to get darker. I didn't like the looks of their devious idea, so I kept my eye on them.

One day last week I grew interested in an old box in my bathroom drawer. Several years ago I experimented with at-home hair removal, and this box contained the remaining strips of wax from the venture. I found the box at a serendipitous moment where I also could carve the free time to make use of it. A foreboding combination.

I cut the large sections of strip wax into perfect little pieces to eradicate those errant brown lip hairs. I was satisfied at my job well done. Nobody else would ever notice the difference, but I'd say that is for the best. I mean, I wouldn't consider it much of a compliment to hear, "My, your lip looks hairless today!" or, "Oh, so I see you decided that sweet 'stache you were cultivating wasn't going to work out after all, huh?" Yeah. Subtle is good.

Having the stuff all out on the counter and a few more minutes to spare, I decided to move on and touch up my brows a bit. I normally keep my eyebrows up through regular tweezing, and every now and then when my laziness produces an out-of-control situation, I hit a salon for a quick wax. I actually love getting waxed, and appreciate the fresh, clean line. So all this waxing business was nothing new to me, and when all was said and done, the results were comparable to what I might pay $12 plus tip for in town.

Little did I know, the trouble was only beginning to brew. See, last week I also decided to use a coupon I received for a box of hair color (I'm not going gray, but my natural color is a little dull). And while in the beauty aisle at my neighborhood grocery store, I remembered that I have been out of facial moisturizer for quite a while and keep forgetting to guy buy the kind I like. So I painstakingly perused Safeway's inadequate selection, settling on one that I was surprised cost about as much as my cosmetic-counter brand (they all did!). All the other neat-looking facial washes and scrubs and creams and serums and exfoliants and toners and age-defying, acne-fighting, wrinkle-reducing, face-lifting potions couldn't help but catch my eye. I decided to grab a cleanser too.

The particular cleanser I chose had some kind of micro-exfoliation beads. And salicylic acid. My poor, unsuspecting skin was subjected to those cruelties mere hours after being made to suffer a brutal ripping between sticky wax and hair follicles. The microscopic violence proved to be too much, and some pink irritation surfaced. I was bummed, but a little make-up (I practically had to blow the dust off of) allowed me to leave the house yesterday morning without too much emotional trauma. I know post-waxing redness is common and would clear up in another day.

This morning involved a bit of madness getting myself ready for work and Madelyn ready for school and out the door to get us to both on time. I rarely wear makeup to work. I mean it's a gym and while I do want to look presentable, it's not a priority for me to get all done up for the ladies there. And I want them to feel the same.

After working my 6-hour shift, I sat down with my mother/business partner for a managerial meeting. I didn't think much of it when I casually pushed my hair away from my eyes and she said (in essence), "What's the matter with your face?!?" Okay, she might have been slightly more tactful, which I now consider quite impressive. I was too busy at work to have looked in a mirror all day, but I knew she was referring to the pink area I had already noticed this morning, so I explained the debacle with the waxing and the new cleanser and how the combination resulted in some minor irritation.

Indeed.

When I finally retreated to my car and glanced in the rear-view mirror, I was appalled. And admittedly mortified that I walked around in public with such an atrocity across what was once my forehead. This was no minor irritation, since this morning it had evolved into a pus-filled rash of adolescent zits!

I hope those pictures didn't gross you out too much. I'm trying to make myself feel better now by applying the new hair color I bought. Only I've left Roasted Chestnut on my hair the entire time I've been writing this, which is about twice the recommended amount of brewing. So I might have another travesty on my hands--er, head--in a moment.

At least my eyebrow lines look good.