These were always Mom's least comforting words when jerking tangles out of Sister's and my hair. These were the same words of wisdom passed down from Nana to her, and no doubt will be what Sister and I hiss to our children with tangles in their hair. Although I'd like to go on the record to say that I'll let my daughter use conditioner or get some spray-in to help those rats along.
I only mention this story because last night I heard Mom's voice in my head while I was getting eyeliner tattooed. The phrase "beauty must suffer pain" has never rang so clear for me.
Pain is an interesting subject. In nursing school they mentally beat us to remember that assessing for pain is the 5th vital sign.
The other thing about pain is that very few people will actually admit that they have zip pain tolerance and are actually weenies. Everybody likes to boast that they have a high pain tolerance.*
Which leads me to wonder where my tolerance actually hovers. Sure, I took narcotics after my surgeries last year, but I think that was justified. After all, they sawed my neck in half, twice. To further investigate this question I bought an epi-lady-type shaver the other week, one that actually jerks hair out of your legs by the root.
I actually bought it for multiple reasons. One, because I hate to shave, and if I can do something so that I only have to do it once every six weeks, sign me up. Two, because everybody else I know who have used one says it was very painful. So I used it on my legs, and was surprised at how it didn't really hurt. Full of myself, I looked at the picture of the person using it on her bikini line, and quickly decided that I wasn't ready to move to that level. The next picture was demonstrating how to use it under your arms. I struck a pose and quickly realized that was a mistake. I must have done it wrong because it didn't really take any hair and totally chapped me. That's healed now, and my results from that experiment is that I'm only a partial weenie.
The real test was last night, and I'm sporting fuchsia donuts around my eyelids this morning. In fact, I wore matching scrub pants so that it would just blend in. I've got goop to keep on my eyelids for the next few days, but by a week it should be oh-so-fancy.
* Yet others like to boast they have a high drinking tolerance, and then end up wondering if their friends will actually show anybody the roll of pictures that were taken that night. Right, Jane? How about some tequila that tastes like ashtray? Let's give (you know who) a sip of a mudslide and watch her cheeks flush. You girls crack me up; I'll stick with the box wine and role of photographer... I learned my lesson.
A Kitty Cat Party: 8 Years Old
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