by Joanie Butman
This summer I broke my own beauty mandate, “No Sharps!” The premise of that decree is that I would take advantage of any beauty/age defying enhancements as long as they didn’t involve sharp objects. I’ll leave any carving of my body to the surgeon whose kept me alive thus far. I used to think that the extensions he provided would be the only ones I’d ever need.
However, now that I’m 60, there are concessionsto be made. At the time of that self-imposed boundary, I didn’t think I’d live long enough to need any anti-aging treatment. Cancer was going to take care of that for free. Since that was ten years, ten pounds and who knows how many wrinkles ago, I decided it was time to reevaluate my stance.
My late 50’s ushered in all kinds of weird body changes like losing hair where it should be and gaining it somewhere else. My eyebrows were the first to migrate to other areas of my face, leaving me with a permanent angry-looking scowl. I tried to mask it the best I could using pencil, but they would melt, sweat or wash off depending on my activity. The growth gel which promised to restore youthful brows resulted in a handful of long strands that produced a comb-over effect – definitely not a good look.
My husband was the one who suggested microblading. After I recovered from the blow to my ego, I called for an appointment. I sat in the chair as a woman approached with an exacto knife and thought to myself, “So, it’s come to this? Vanity be cursed.” Then to ratch it up a notch, I was told my brows were uneven but a little botox would correct that misfortune. Oh well, “In for a penny, in for a pound. Give me the works!”
Thirty minutes later she handed me a mirror, and I stared in horror at my Groucho-like brows. “How am I going to hide these?” was my immediate thought. “You’re not” is the obvious answer, any more than you can hide sin from God. Shame on me for letting my vanity get the better of me. I should know by now the only beauty treatment I will ever need is His Word tattooed on my heart and a smile on my face. Something I need to remind my husband whose only response to my new brows was, “When are you going to do your boobs?” What can I say? He has a death wish.
I’m not sure how long microblading lasts, but the beauty that radiates from a God-filled woman endures well beyond our wrinkles and more than ‘makes up’ for what we lose to age. As far as my brows go, resembling Groucho Marx isn’t the worst that can happen. Even he had moments of clarity.
I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it.
Now that is a wise choice. The jury's still out on the microblading.