In college, my esthetician was my confidante. Grooming my full, thick eyebrows—which sadly I hadn’t yet appreciated—became an obsession from age 13, so to avoid going pluck-happy in between driving home for holidays, I had to find a salon I trusted. Thank goodness for Jessica.
I laid on the same spa table every three weeks for three years. The appointment often lasted longer than the scheduled 15 minutes: we gossiped and caught up. She assessed my brows to make sure they weren’t thinning; it’s how she could tell if my health issues flared. We cried together after her miscarriage. She hugged me tightly when I landed internships. I felt refreshed and confident. I’m pretty sure I would strut out of there.
The rest of this story is for members.
Enter your email to continue.
You’re signed in as .
Not you?
