My eyebrows hurt.
Yesterday a very kind, precise lady attacked my eyebrows with a piece of thin white thread, showing no mercy to any wild, scruffy strand. She did it slowly, going at half the speed of the usual threading sessions I’ve had. My eyebrows were red and raw by the time I finally left her chair.
But at least I have neat, even eyebrows for the wedding now.
People keep asking me if everything is organised and ready, or if I’m nervous. The questions are simultaneously understandable and mildly irritating. I never really know what to say in response. There is no answer that is both accurate and satisfactory, and so I often opt for the cop-out: a smile, a “yeah, it’s pretty much done” and a trailing off that suggests that I could say more… but I don’t.
The truth is that I’m good, but wake up early in the morning with what feels like every molecule of my body dancing around under my skin as if they’re thinking of bursting out through my pores. I spend the daytime going through practical lists of tasks, ticking them off one-by-one as if it was yet another project to fix. I spend the nighttime counting down the days and the hours, unsure of what that emotion I’m feeling actually is.
It feels as if a blog post is needed to mark this occasion, the last day on which I tick “Single” on government forms. But it doesn’t feel like there’s that much to write about: I don’t think things are going to be hugely different after the wedding. Are they?
I don’t know. I’m guessing not, but will await a blog entry post-wedding to confirm.