Yesterday I got my eyebrows waxed at my favorite place for all things personal and pampering, Avalon Day Spa in The West Village. I’ve been frequenting this place for haircuts and the like since I first moved to New York in 1997. Now that I live in Tokyo, I still manage to book a visit nearly every time I’m back in New York–which is fairly often these days. One of the guys I knew back then still works there and always welcomes me with a smile and a hearty hello.

In short, I trust the people there. Except for that stylist who kept giving my partner a bad cut because he had a crush on me, Avalon has never given me a reason to distrust them. So it’s with a heavy heart and a raw, red brow that I say I don’t know if I can trust them anymore.

The friendly Peruvian girl who did my brows fucked up and bad. My left brow is ringed with a soft scab, a few layers of skin removed due to sheer incompetence that will take days if not weeks to fully heal.

After my run down to Battery Park, I passed by Avalon on my way back to the apartment. I nearly didn’t go inside but I remembered what my friends said last night, that I should at least let them know what happened. So I walked in and was very nice about the whole thing. I figured it’s not going to scar and I just wanted to let them know that this happened and to be more careful in the future and not necessarily to me but to whomever happened to need a brow wax or pluck.

The Peruvian girl was there and she was as pleasant as can be and I didn’t even have to try to resist slapping her because I really didn’t want to slap her which is odd given my temper. That I haven’t been locked up in Japan for pushing some goddamn, middle-aged bitch who hogs the platform in front of a speeding train is a testament to my tolerance of all things unfair and downright bitchy.

Will I go to Avalon Day Spa when I return to New York this summer? Of course I will. Old habits die hard, and after my visit to Sydney earlier this month, I’m really trying hard to adopt that whole “no worries” mantra that seems to work so well for our friends down under.

So now I look like the gay Frankenstein, Fagastein. No worries! My face will heal. I should count my blessings, and I don’t say that to be in any way corny.