The other day, I had an appointment in a part of town I don’t normally spend time in, but I needed some groceries, so I went to the chain grocery store in the nearby strip mall, and then the multi-tasking part of my brain kicked in, and me, knowing that I’ve needed my eyebrows waxed for weeks (okay, if I’m honest here, a lot of parts of my face needed waxing. In fact, lately, my face actually feels like it’s falling off of my face, like off of a cliff. Therefore, waxing my entire face seemed like a good idea to give it any kind of hair-free lift I can get. At least in my mind . . . ) On a whim, I decided to enter a nail salon, like you find in every strip mall that has a major grocery chain store it, and I asked them if they do waxing, so I could get yet another thing checked off of my list. A woman took me right back to their little waxing room in the back of the store.
I had never been to this particular salon, nor had this particular practioner ever done my waxing, so I started in with my emphatic lecture that I give every waxing professional I go to, about how I love my hairy caterpillar eyebrows and I want to keep them as thick as possible, and please err on the side of thick, heavy Brooke Shields, even Frieda Keilo eyebrows, yada, yada, yada, yada . . . .
“Yes, yes, just clean them up,” she nodded, clearly having heard these particular instructions from many clients in the past.
“I’m sorry,” I said with a chuckle. “Can you tell I have PTSD?” I said this off-handedly, thinking back to a time in my thirties when I just started getting my eyebrows waxed, and clearly my waxer, had just started waxing the art of waxing herself, and I lost half of one of my eyebrows. (and that was back at a time that I could count on my facial hairs growing back, in the right places)
My waxer did one of those half smiles that did not mask some deep pain. “Oh, I know PTSD,” she said. “My ex had PTSD from being in wars. He would wake me up every night, yelling and screaming. He kept two guns in the night stand.”
“Oh, wow, I’m so sorry. I was wrong to use ‘PTSD’ so lightly,” and I could feel my face turning red, not from the waxing, but from shame. And then the vain, self-centered part of me, started panicking, thinking that this practioner might just wax off half of one of my eyebrows to teach me a well-deserved lesson.
But of course, she didn’t. My waxer was lovely. She did a great job with my waxing, and she even did a sort of facial massage that felt absolutely wonderful. Clearly, my waxing practioner was a pro at what she does. And also, clearly she knows a hell of a lot more about PTSD than I ever have known.
Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.