Facial Hair Removal Horror Stories

People are generally surprised when I claim to be a tiny amount Persian because I’m pale and always have a soy latte in hand. At which point I show them my faint handlebar mustache. But really, the only bodily characteristic that confirms the presence of a small amount of Persian blood is the speed and veracity at which my facial hair grows. Unfortunately, I am not a man so my facial hair inspires slight revulsion instead of deep respect and fear.  You would think I would have a favored method for removing it by now as a 23 year old, but this is not true. I have no loyalty to hair removal procedures because so far, they have all resulted in mediocre eyebrows and pain.

My face during facial hair removal.

My face during facial hair removal.

I wish I could just allow the monolithic caterpillars on my face to continue to grow into a majestic unibrow butterfly. I wish I just could accept Frida Kahlo as my style icon and move on. And, to be honest, there are days when I enjoy my hairy wolf face. Like when the sunlight streams into my room, dappled by swaying trees, and hits my mustache, soul patch, and unibrow juuust right so as to produce a very attractive effect. And I think to myself, “Wow, I should really just be highlighting these features instead of getting them ripped out of my face every few weeks!” Alas, the sun is not so kind most days so instead, I find ways to rid myself of this extra hair. And don’t worry, I don’t waste my waxed/plucked facial hair; I donate it to the Justin Bieber Facial Hair Relief Fund. I urge you to do the same.

Justin Bieber Facial Hair Relief Fund #neverforget

Justin Bieber Facial Hair Relief Fund #neverforget

Annnyway, after months of leaving my facial hair alone besides the occasional use of tweezers, I decided it was time to turn to the professionals again. I went to a threading salon where I was promised a pain-free experience that was better than waxing. Yeah, no. There is not such thing as painless hair removal. I sat in the chair as the nice lady methodically used friction to remove my face hairs and I proceeded to sweat everywhere  because of the pain. I’m sure my eyes were watering too but I can’t remember because I have mostly blocked out the memory.

After the threading session, I had shaped eyebrows, a sweaty dress, and an unwavering desire to never get my eyebrows threaded again.

However, a few weeks later, I realized my eyebrows were out of control. I was a human sheepdog. I couldn’t see right and my parents were getting worried.  I decided to go back to the waxing salon where I also previously had told myself I would never return.

This was a mistake because, for the second time, I had actual skin ripped off instead of hair.

I Snapchatted this to all of my friends.

I Snapchatted this to all of my friends.

I thought that maybe it was just a fluke or something when this happened the first time. Nope. I’m just sensitive to wax and get lightning scars but not in a cool Harry Potter way or in a way that would discern me as a truly committed SD Chargers fan – no, just an unsightly scar. I religiously put vitamin E on it in the hopes that it would help heal it with its magical science powers. It did heal the outside scar, but the emotional scars have yet to heal.

I hope we can all learn something from my terrible grooming mishaps: just accept the lady stache.

- M

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The Kittens are in the Rebellious Teen Phase

Go home, Kitten, you’re drunk.

But seriously, I walked into my bedroom today and found a kitten asleep in one of my shoes. The smell of tequila and regret wafting through the air mixed with Tidy Cats: Multiple Cats Formula cat litter smell. I sensed mischief.

I consider myself to be relaxed in my parenting style. I let Loki and Thor be themselves, even when it walks the line between good taste and Ke$ha. As long as they are not hurting themselves, I let them be. But this is where I draw the line.

Substance abuse. It’s a serious problem among our nation’s youth. And I will not enable my adopted children to become a statistic. First tequila… and then what, cat nip? And then, they’re going to go and knock up some stray on the street.

You can barely take care of yourself, Loki. I’m not even sure you know how to walk. How are you going to take care of a litter of kittens? How do you expect to provide for a family when all you’ve got is a scratching post and a plastic ball to your name?  Are you satisfied with that kind of life? I raised you better than this. 

No, you’re big adorable blue eyes will not sway me. Stop it. Drugs are bad. Stop trying to hypnotize me.  

I don’t care how cute you look asleep in the shoe. This is not acceptable behavior and I will not tolerate it under my roof. 

Dear God, it’s… so cute. I’m dying. Okay, stay with me forever. You are forgiven. 

- Daughter

I Guess I’m Supposed to Write About Valentine’s Day

It’s that time of year again. No, not another colonoscopy. No, not another endoscopy. NO, NOT FOR AN ENEMA. Is your digestive system okay? Like, seriously. That’s a lot of procedures. Eat some more fiber or something.

Anyway, it’s Valentine’s Day! I guess I’m supposed to write a hilarious blog post or a cynical, sarcastic one about this day dedicated to love, but the problem is, I don’t have an opinion about Valentine’s Day. I like cats and act like a crazy cat lady on all days, so this day doesn’t particularly resonate with me.

I was literally banging my head against the wall screaming, “WHY AM I NOT FUNNY?!!!!!!!” when I was attempting to brainstorm a blog post about Valentine’s Day. Perhaps because of a concussion, I had a realization. The problem is, you see, that everything funny that could be written about Valentine’s day has been written. And everything saccharine and cutesy about Valentine’s Day has also been written. So… what’s left? I’m left. I’M LEFT. No, I’m write. I mean, right.

If for some reason you are a weirdo who gets sad on Valentine’s Day, I have come to bring you good cheer. Here are cute animals having a worse Valentine’s Day than you:




- Daughter


Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic, Part III

Instagram filters out the ugly.

Instagram filters out the ugly.

My dad and I didn’t get on the road today because of the weather gods’ sadistic ways so just pretend you’re at a fancy orchestra concert and it’s the intermission. This way, you can pretend you’re consuming more edifying material and also, it’s fun to imaaaagine. Reading Rainbow taught me that.

This morning, my alarm went off at some ungodly time and I immediately turned it off because, hey, if my dad wants me awake, he can wake me up himself. The next time I woke up, it was 10 am. I was confused and disoriented because I was expecting to wake up in the passenger seat of the truck and not still in a bed, swaddled like Baby Jesus. My aunt informed me that the weather conditions were too dangerous to drive. I looked outside and saw for myself, and, yes, an ivory blanket of snow had covered the land. White powder was everywhere. Must be what the inside of Charlie Sheen’s house looks like (ugh, that joke is so 2011, sorry). Anywho, snow = rest day. Cue me rolling around on the carpet in utter bliss because I could laze around the whole day like a human-cat hybrid. (And did I ever. At one point, I laid in a dark room because of the novelty of it not being a car.)

We were snowed in but luckily, we’re staying with family so we can abuse their hospitality by rummaging through their pantries and annoying their cat.



The cat, Bobbi, is adorable because he’s got a bit of the chub going on and a salt-and-pepper coat that’s very George Clooney. He also has a permanent head tilt from some health problems (sadface) so he walks around with a chronically quizzical expression. It’s very sad but sickeningly adorable and cute too. I essentially followed him around all day, mirroring his head-tilt and trying to pet him. He tolerated my presence but mostly walked away, playing hard-to-get.

All in all, today was a nice rest but tomorrow, we go on, ready to conquer not only the roads but also our fears and weaknesses. Maybe. As long as we have our Starbucks first.

- Daughter

See Puppy Run, See Seam Run


Clothes-rippers. Or Jack the Rippers.

My best friends adopted a stray dog because they’re good humans with beating organs that pump blood throughout their respective circulatory systems. Unbeknownst to them, this dog was pregnant and dispensed some puppies like some sort of real-life Pe(t)z dispenser within a few weeks of her adoption. Suddenly, they were the owners of four dogs instead of one.

Words fail me.

Words fail me. *Dies from a-cute heart failure* 

The mother is a mouth-breather who prefers snorting over barking. She bit me on the hand once when I accidentally came too close to her puppies when they had just been born, so I defriended her on Facebook and we’ve been on the outs since. The three puppies, unofficially named PorkButt, Sewer Rat, and Scooter, enjoy luxuries like chewing what they please and peeing where they please. I consider myself the godparent – aka tnerapdog – to these pups and have watched them grow from tiny, furry caterpillars to slightly larger, more dog-like creatures.

When I am around these pups, a part of me knows I should be calm and stoic so as not to upset their delicate dispositions. They are puppies after all: easily excitable. Being me, I do the opposite and flail around like a Jim Henson muppet (?). I make loud noises and wrestle them. The price I pay for this amusement and my lack of self-control around animals is perma-snagged/ripped clothes. There have been times when I have debated cuddling a puppy – knowing that I am wearing a delicate fabric vulnerable to runs or holes – but cuddling always, always wins out. At this point, I consider the runs on my seams and loose strings falling from my clothes like straw from a scarecrow (WHAT SORT OF SIMILE IS THAT?) to be small reminders of the pups’ love for me where I go. They like me better than my dog does.

My dog never puts holes in my clothes or runs in my seams because he can’t even stand to look at me much less get close enough to damage my clothing. Probably because I’m constantly doing things like this to him:

"I'm so disgusted that I can't even look at your face right now."

“I’m so disgusted that I can’t even look at your face right now.”

Whatever, at least I have the puppies. I mean, just look at PorkButt (who is the most corpulent and rotund of the puppies), how can you say no to that face? CONTINUE TO RIP MY CLOTHES, PORKBUTT! I DON’T EVEN CARE.


I can haz run in your seam?

- Daughter

Feeding a Kitten Like a Boss



This is me when I was tan and 6 or 7 with an awesome haircut. I’m holding Sandy, our cat, before she turned into the Antichrist we know today.

- Daughter

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