A Constant State of Surprise

My sister is friends with her waxer.

When I first met The Waxer several years ago, she offered to "shape" my eyebrows. "Because you look sad," said The Waxer. "And you're not sad!"

Well, in point of fact, I had just been dumped (and my sister had just finished telling her that) so really I was pretty sad. I politely declined, saying I was fairly content with the shape of my eyebrows.

Last year, I crossed paths with The Waxer once again. She didn't recognize me as her friend's sister, and certainly had no recollection of having met me previously. And in the course of chitchat, she said "You should let me shape your eyebrows. They make you look sad."

In point of fact, I was in quite a good mood at that moment, apart from being in the presence of The Waxer. Suffice it to say, I refused her yet again.

I don't believe my eyebrows make me appear perpetually sad--I just think they make me seem perpetually unsurprised. I am not surprised.

Unlike, say, every woman I've ever seen who had her eyebrows shaped. You can always tell a shaped eyebrow: the unnatural arch--which, by the way, is way the hell over on the other side of her iris--the thick start and thin finish, and, best of all, the twin peaks.

It's like at the moment when the wax was ripped, they all were thinking "Oooh! That hurt! My goodness!" And the expression stuck, just like your grandma always told you your sour face would.