I use this time to color my hair, pluck my eye brows, do a mask, call a friend, etc.
Most likely, the only thing keeping my (plucked and shaved) tootsies out of your jaw is the bottle of wine I downed at lunch in fearful anticipation of our appointment.
What they don't know is that my 22 years in television, spent endlessly coloring my hair, plucking my eyebrows, and exercising into a size six, has cured me forever of the desire to work hard at looking plastic.
I get my eyebrows plucked, my body waxed.
Demi would sit for hours on my shoulder plucking at my beard while I worked in my office.
Now I consider it a good day if my hair is not high atop my head in a messy bun, if both legs are shaved (yes, I have in a hurry forgotten to shave a leg) -- and, my goodness, I felt like I went to the spa when I took some time to clip my nails and pluck my eyebrows.
I was always getting my legs waxed, or my nose bobbed, or my eyebrows plucked.
I filmed my plight and then dreamt up stories of my body plucked from the tip of a moose antler, my phone still in the canoe with my last footage of me paddling against the wind and going nowhere as the giant moose skipped over the water to claim me.
I don't shave my legs but I pluck my eyebrows.
Lady Macbeth goads and drives on her wavering husband to fulfil the destiny she insists is his: I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.
