The Price of Beauty

You know it's humid when you walk indoors, where the temperature is just a touch cooler, and your glasses fog up! Well, today is one of those days. A ten minute walk to class leaves me wringing wet. It's embarassing. Koreans must not have sweat glands, or their body processes heat better than most North Americans, because they don't even break a sweat. In fact, the only person I've really seen perspiring since arriving in this country is of Chinese descent.

I've always had difficulty saying goodbye to students, and even though I've only seen each class twice, I know this time will be no different. When we take pictures at the end of today's class, the girls rest their heads on my shoulders, and everyone tries to stand near me. Here, unlike in North America, the teacher holds a status position in society. I'm truly chuffed when Rob later tells me that he bumped into students from another class and they told him how much they're enjoying the classes.

The higher ups seem pleased as well. Dr. Shin says he's been hearing good things, but, as always, I'm most concerned with what the students think, because students are unflinchingly honest, and they vote with their feet. What they seem to appreciate the most is my style of moving around the room while talking, so each student gets face time. I do this because I well recall thinking that I could have died in class when I was a student, and no one would have noticed.

In the afternoon I rush around delivering gift pins to the peons, the little people who toil in anonymity. I also drop off thank you notes to Doctors Kim and Shin for a truly memorable dinner. Then it's home to get ready for the evening's agenda: a resurrection of my rapidly vanishing eyebrows. I dearly hope that I won't end up with tiny Korean apostrophes that endow me with an expression of perpetual surprise. They look great on delicate Korean visages, but wouldn't work so well on this German Canadian mug.

I hook up with my escort, Hye Jin at 6, and we cab it to a salon at the foot of a mountain near her home. On the way, she tells me how much she and her peers are enjoying our classes, and how very much they appreciate my positive approach. She says she too would like to teach, but like TA Se-Hee, feels underqualified to be accepted into the teaching programs. She's settled instead on economics, so she can work in a bank. Still, one day she wants to teach young children. I tell her that I didn't get to realize my dream of teaching until I began my second career at age 37. We discuss the importance of pursuing ones passions; her mother is a psychiatric nurse who loves her work, and her father is a businessman who is not experiencing job satisfaction.

When we arrive at the salon, a soft-spoken woman bids me to enter and kneel on the mat with her so she can assess the situation. She feels that these caterpillars need work, and suggests that we begin by shortening them so they don't further drag down my puppy dog eyes. (I've grown rather attached to the "house (roof) eyes" moniker my husband and son have bestowed on me.) She gestures toward a giant poster of eyebrow styles, from the Brooke Shields of the 80s to the Liz Taylor of the 60s. I explain that I rather like my current brows, having worked for years to achieve this look, but admit to seeing the wisdom in shortening them a bit. I draw a picture to clarify my hopes and expectations.

Next thing I know, I'm flat on the table with clippers and razors whizzing above me. The process doesn't hurt in the least, it just feels like hot scratching. I'm most grateful that my mother's old adage, "If you want to be beautiful, you have to suffer," doesn't hold true in this case. I say a prayer that I don't emerge looking like the unibrowed Baby Gerald from the Simpsons. She assures me, through my interpreter, that the result won't be unlike the look I had coming in the door. Further, she warns not to jump to conclusions over the next couple of days because the colour and outline will be great exaggerated until the skin settles down.

At the midway point, while still prone, and without my glasses on, I'm given a mirror so I can check on the progress. My heart skips at beat. Indeed, it looks rather dramatic. I give a gentle reminder to please keep the brows reasonably thin, since you can add more easily than take away, and then I fall back to my prayer/meditation session. She calmly resumes her work, every so often affectionately patting my arm, or brushing away a stray strand of hair.

Like many women, any time I cut or change the colour of my hair, gain or lose weight, buy a new dress, or in any way alter my appearance, I obsess and ruminate about the end result. I begin my usual internal bargaining monologue. Well, if I like it, it's permanent. If I don't like it, without touch ups it will wear off in about three years. If I do like it, I won't have to worry about fussing anymore with an eyebrow pencil. If I don't like it, I can have it removed. And so on.

In the end, I'm a wee bit surprised by the darkness and thickness of my eyebrows, but I recall seeing other people after this procedure and remembering that the appearance was much more moderate just a few days later. While she says my brows will look exactly as they did before, only shorter, they seem to have a smoother arch. However, I do note that I look as if I've had a subtle facelift.

While my companion has her eyeliner touched up, I chat with the salon owner's 17 year old son. As I attach a pin of The Golden Boy, the statue atop Manitoba's legislature, to his shirt, we talk about learning English. We sip demi-tasse paper cups of sweet coffee, exchanging information, with occasional interjections from the patient. This boy wants to be a dentist, and I tell him that's good because when I come to Korea, his mother can fix my eyebrows while he fixes my teeth. His mother nods approvingly while he negotiates his way through the cognitive gaps, and I am reminded yet again of why I feel so priviledged to have a second career that I view more as a vocation.

When I try to pay the 30,000 won fee, my tattoo artist hands me back 10,000. I tell her thank you, but I must insist she take this money for this is her business. She doesn't put up a fight. She hugs me, several times, tells me how very much she enjoyed getting together, and invites me to return, next time, for dinner. As Hye Jin and I exit the store and walk down the street, I discover why there was no argument over the cash. I am handed several packets of pain relief ointment, pain killers, and a large bottle of expensive professional use only hair styling product that is easily worth double the money she tried to give back to me. It's funny because I'd been thinking I needed something to reduce the frizz and add a little shine. My crowning glory has been rather witchy lately, despite a male student's confiding to a classmate that he finds it "naturally beautiful," so much so that he wants to add white streaks to his own hair.

I arrive home to find Husband madly reading, writing, and studying. The good Religions Doctor can't help himself - life is one big research project, and there's not a moment to be wasted. He takes one look at me, and when I say, "So what do you think? Do I look like Groucho Marx?" he replies, "Well, you have the same moustache!" Truly, there will be no navel gazing or fixating on the superficial around my boys who will instantly pillory anyone who does so. But seriously, the little lady did a beautiful job.

I have to remind myself of this fact when I awaken in a panic at 3:30 a.m., and Rob has to talk me off the ledge.