You knew before she finished the sentence.
She was already in the chair, cape on, all smiles, telling you she was ready for a full beat — event tonight, photos, the whole thing. And then she leaned forward slightly and you saw it. The brow bone. Raw. Shiny in a way that has nothing to do with skincare. The specific pink of skin that has had something removed from it recently and has not yet decided how it feels about that.
“Oh, I got my brows waxed this morning. Fresh, right?”
She said it like it was good news. Like she’d done you a favor.
You’ve been here before. You know exactly what a brush on that skin is going to do — how the product will catch on every raw edge, how the texture will show through no matter how light your hand is, how she’ll check the mirror in two hours and the brows will be the only thing she sees. You also know that she has an event tonight, that she came here for a full look, and that she is sitting in your chair completely confident that this is a non-issue.
You look at the rest of her face. Clear skin, good canvas, nothing that’s going to fight you. The brow situation is the only variable. But it’s not a small one. Freshly waxed skin isn’t just sensitive — the top layer has been physically lifted. It will grip anything you put on it. It may react. The result will look textured at best and irritated at worst, and it will get worse as the night goes on.
She’s watching you in the mirror with the particular expression of someone who has already decided this is not a problem and is waiting for you to agree.
The brush is in your hand. The brow bone is right there. She’s insisting you proceed.
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