When I was 14, I shaved a boy’s eyebrows off.
It is, to this day, the absolutely meanest, most horrific thing I have ever done.
Joe had a locker directly across from mine in the freshman hallway, and two days before Halloween, I overheard him telling a boy I really, really liked that I would be pretty…if I lost 100lbs and wasn’t so fat.
(For all you math lovers out there, at that time, a 100lb weight loss would have put me at 40lbs. High school boys are assholes.)
I was crushed and felt the way any emotional teenage girl with low self esteem feels on a daily basis in High School.
Let’s consult the graph…
In an attempt to make my first public high school experience not at all awkward and traumatizing, my parents decided to let me throw a Halloween party. We didn’t have a ton of money, so they bartered the shit out of this thing.
A popcorn machine from the guy my dad laid counter tops for.
A few hours of karaoke from the DJ whose daughter needed a job in my parent’s video store.
Some cakes from the lady whose mother worked for my grandma at her dress shop during the war.
It was one cat rodeo and a magician from being the greatest event ever.
I invited people, who invited people, who invited people.
Many of them showed up.
The tamer ones hung out in the garage with the DJ and snacks.
The cooler people spread out among the bonfires and dark corners of the fields behind my parent’s house.
Making out. Drinking stolen beer. Smoking pot out of crushed Dr. Pepper cans.
I was the only person who dressed up. Unless you count my parents. Which I don’t.
I was a marginally sexy witch. Which was an exciting upgrade from my Catholic school days, as we weren’t permitted to use Halloween for Satanic purposes, and instead, celebrated the holiday by dressing up as famous literary characters.
But, Stuart Little loses his luster once your boobs come in, and the one time I tried to show up to school as Madame Bovary, Sister Mary Beth sent me home.
Visibility was low in my witch’s hat, so it took me a moment to realize the boy passed out cold alone on the picnic table in our field was Joe. The boy I was simply too fat for.
I looked at him laying there all smug, with the alcohol tolerance of a 4 year old.
I concluded, in that moment, that I hated him and his weird uneven attempt at a mustache.
I would shave it off, I decided.
I went to my bathroom, put a new, sterile blade in my razor and headed back out.
But then, the more I looked at him and his big Irish hairy head, I realized if I shaved his mustache, no one would notice, and if they did, they wouldn’t be shocked, but rather, thankful.
Puberty mustaches make everyone uncomfortable.
So, I took off my curly toed witch shoes, climbed up on the table, straddled his chest, and began shaving his eyebrows off.
They were so bushy, and because I didn’t bring anything to lube them up, by the time I was done, he covered with tiny knocks of blood.
I felt both immensely proud and only slightly guilty climbing off the picnic table, and spent the rest of the evening in the garage dishing out popcorn.
About an hour later, I saw a group of his friends laughing hysterically as they helped him stagger to the car. He had wet himself, and threw up in the pine tree next to our basketball hoop.
My parents saw him and exclaimed that he was never allowed at our house, ever again.
Monday at school, everyone was still talking about it, and when I saw Joe at his locker, he looked horrendous. Like, one giant scabby forehead with eyes.
I felt kinda horrible for doing it, so offered to draw his eyebrows on with my brown eyeliner.
I did it every morning for six weeks.
Four weeks in, he asked me on a date.
I never told him I was the one who had shaved his eyebrows off, so I feel like that would have been an awkward issue in our relationship.
Plus, his eyebrows looked weird and it creeped me out.
Even us fat girls have standards.