To live life as a man is traditionally to never experience waxing (well, unless your name is Channing Tatum and you're starring in a movie about life as a male stripper). So to say I didn't want to have my eyebrows waxed (let alone anything else — we'll get to that later) would be an understatement. But there I was, face toward the ceiling, with my esthetician Monica hovering over me at Trump Hotel Chicago Spa ready for my eyebrow wax ($40).
She first applied warm wax at that middle spot where I have a semblance of a unibrow, and a small layer beneath each of my brows. She then placed the wax paper over it, let it cool, and then bam! She ripped it right off. Wait, that wasn't so bad — so that's it? Just some gooey wax between my eyes and under my brow, a three-second countdown, and a slight tug on my skin? Yep, she told me. OK. I can deal with that. Hell, let's do more. Actually, I thought, let's not. The last thing I wanted was to be that guy with eyebrows resembling half moons. No, I think it was in my best interest to let my Cara Delevingne-y eyebrow bushiness reign.
