Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista by Aven Ellis

up your shoulders.”
    “Sorry,” I say, trying to shake Deke from my head as Meegan goes back to work. But then again, it’s natural that I’m thinking of Deke this morning. I totally forgot that he has to come over and shoot me this afternoon to capture my non-work life, so that’s why he’s on my mind this morning. Of course I’m thinking of him. It makes perfect sense.
    Well, except for the shirtless part but I decide to ignore that little detail for now.
    Meegan continues to stroke and knead my back and I do feel much better by the time she finishes. Hmmm. Maybe I could fall asleep for a few minutes. I think I read in a health column once that a quick five-minute nap is quite rejuvenating for—
    “Irina will be in shortly to do your eyebrows,” Meegan says, interrupting my thoughts.
    I instantly jar out of relaxation mode. I hold the sheet to me as I sit up on the table.
    “I don’t want my eyebrows done,” I explain, staring at Meegan in confusion. “Bree is getting the wax. Not me.”
    “Oh?” Meegan says, staring down at her clipboard in confusion. “But we have you scheduled for an eyebrow wax, too.” Meegan pauses, her hazel eyes zeroing in on my brows. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”
    Do I need one that badly? My brows are dark blond, and I think I manage them quite well with tweezers. But Meegan is studying me in a way that strikes fear into my heart. And suddenly I get an image of that old leader of the former U.S.S.R from history class at the University of Illinois. Shit, does she think I look like Brezhnev or something?
    “Uh, okay, sure,” I say, nodding. “I’ll have a wax.”
    “Great. Irina will be here shortly.”
    I nod and slip back into my thick white robe. Then I lay back down on the table. I close my eyes and listen to the music, wondering if waxing my eyebrows is something I should have been doing all along.
    There’s a knock on the door, and I open my eyes. A short, stocky woman with a buzzed platinum blond haircut marches into the room.
    “I’m Irina,” she says with a thick Russian accent. “I will do the brows. Follow me, please.”
    I swallow. “Uh, sure,” I say, studying her as I sit up. Panic forms in me when I notice that she has hardly any eyebrows, except for the ones drawn in with a pencil.
    “I want a very natural brow,” I say quickly as Irina leads me down the hall. “And I have very sensitive skin. Please be gentle. I’ve never done this before.”
    Irina pauses and stares hard at my eyebrows. “Yes, I can see that,” she says matter-of-factly.
    I frown. She didn’t have to be that honest about the state of my brows.
    Irina takes me to another room and opens the door. “Lie down,” she commands.
    I lie down on a table, and Irina moves over me. She then begins applying the hot wax to my skin, and I nearly jump off the table in pain.
    “That’s really hot,” I say.
    “It gets the hair off,” she says firmly. She presses something to the wax and then quickly rips it away. Pain sears through my skin.
    “Ouch!” I yell, thinking my skin has just been stripped off my face. Then she rips the wax off the underside of my brow, which is even more painful. “Oh! That really hurts!”
    Irina pauses for a moment, her face twisting up. “Oh. You have very seenseetive skin.”
    Fear shoots through me. Why is she saying that? What’s happening to my skin?
    Irina quickly does the other eye, and I cry again in response as the molten lava like wax is ripped off above and below my eyebrow. Now my skin feels like it’s on fire.
    “I want to see it,” I say firmly, looking around for a mirror.
    Irina starts to go a little pale. “Uh . . . Maybe you should wait a few minutes. Your skin . . . well . . . it’s a little pink .”
    I sit up on the table. “I want a mirror.”
    Irina frowns and passes me a hand mirror. I put it up and gasp in complete horror as soon as I see my reflection. Pink? Pink? No. My skin is red. Like someone strapped big