The other day I wore contact lenses for the first time in almost a year. I was trying to put forth a little more effort into my appearance, because a good friend of mine microbladed my eyebrows the day before and I wanted to prove to her that I would not squander my new-and-improved face.
(One time I went to get my hair cut and coloured at a fancy salon, and after over two hours of work on my head, the stylist pronounced me “all done!” and asked if I had any plans for the evening. “Not really,” I replied, “probably just go home and watch shows with my husband.” She was aghast—literally offended—that she’d just gone to all that work only to have it wasted on netflix and chill. She made me promise to go out, and not to make all her hard work be for nothing. I think of that any time I get anything “done” to my appearance. DON’T YOU WASTE THIS, CAMILLE.)
So I pulled out all the stops in honour of my new brows—changed out of grease-stained sweatpants, showered, BLOW DRIED and FLAT IRONED my hair (I rarely do this), put in my contacts, and applied a little bit of makeup—powder foundation, eyeliner, and mascara; I don’t even own eyeshadow anymore.
The whole song and dance took me nearly an hour, and the entire time, Hutch was harassing Holden, Holden was clawing at the shower curtain to be let in, Hutch was begging for shows on the iPad and snacks, Holden was whining at my feet until I’d point the blowdryer his direction (which he loved), in other words it was basically chaos. And throughout it all, whenever the whining and crying became too annoying, I would scream. At my boys (mainly Hutch). And then they would cry, because it scared them. And then I would feel horrible, because they deserve not to have a witch for a mother. And then I would stop all of my primping to cuddle them and apologise for losing my temper.
And THEN I remembered why nine days out of ten I don’t get “fixed up” before I leave the house. It’s just not worth it to me. I would rather have my kids happy and healthy, raised by a generally cheerful non-witchy (albeit frumpy) mother than an iPad.
Given the choice between paying attention to my eyebrows or my children, I hope I’ll always choose the ones that will feed me prunes in the old folks’ home 60 years from now.