pour être belle, vous devez souffrir. (Plucking)
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I had the thickest eyebrows made
They reached from my lids to my brain They looked as if there was no place For skin to show among my face And teasing would go on each day ’Bout how they were so long and frayed These eyebrow hairs filed me with hate I begged Mom to get them all shaved After the day that I turned eight My mother finally had caved She handed me small metal plates With pointed tips, joined at the base She said that these were tweezers made To pluck each strand off of my face “First it will hurt, but just you wait, You’ll soon forget all of the pain.” In the mirror by the foyer I plucked the hairs out from my face And crafted a new, thinner shape It hurt but I didn’t complain |
PAULINE AKSAY
is a storyteller based in Toronto, Canada. She has experience in writing poetry, digital animation, and in illustrating children’s books, and has previously received two artist’s grants to write, illustrate and self-publish two children’s stories. Aksay’s work explores mental health, perception, imagination, and the limits of memory, offering an evocative glimpse into the human experience from the eyes of an outsider. She aspires to promote the emotional intelligence, compassion, and understanding in the people who experience her work. |
I was a flautist of my face
The tweezers were instruments played
Each pluck would hurt and give me pain
But “the show must go on,” I’d say...
And as the years drifted away
I’d pluck each of my brows at eight
Both in the night and in the day
The pain would start to dissipate
When Dad got sick, they soon became
A thinner and a rounder shape
Then Mom had a hospital stay
There were more hairs for me to tame
And when I was an adult age,
My grandpa died by my birthday
In the mirror by the foyer
I looked and saw a hair misplaced
Before the funeral would play
I reached in my purse for the plates
And grabbed the hair with all my strength
Ripped it out from my teary face
But all those years of dulling pain
Gotten me to expect the same
Until I realized in shame
The chunk of hair I tweezed in vain
In my effort to stop my brain
From thinking ’bout his death again
I plucked the whole brow off my face
There’s no time to fix the mistake
So I took both small metal plates
With pointed tips, joined at the base
And tweezed the rest of them away
There’d be no brows to give me shame
And I felt not one bit of pain
When both my eyebrows were erased
I wouldn’t see Grandpa again
After tweezing, I was not fazed
The metal plates would keep me sane
To numb me from all of my pain
With a sharpie, I’ll stroke the plain
Brow lines all over once again.
The tweezers were instruments played
Each pluck would hurt and give me pain
But “the show must go on,” I’d say...
And as the years drifted away
I’d pluck each of my brows at eight
Both in the night and in the day
The pain would start to dissipate
When Dad got sick, they soon became
A thinner and a rounder shape
Then Mom had a hospital stay
There were more hairs for me to tame
And when I was an adult age,
My grandpa died by my birthday
In the mirror by the foyer
I looked and saw a hair misplaced
Before the funeral would play
I reached in my purse for the plates
And grabbed the hair with all my strength
Ripped it out from my teary face
But all those years of dulling pain
Gotten me to expect the same
Until I realized in shame
The chunk of hair I tweezed in vain
In my effort to stop my brain
From thinking ’bout his death again
I plucked the whole brow off my face
There’s no time to fix the mistake
So I took both small metal plates
With pointed tips, joined at the base
And tweezed the rest of them away
There’d be no brows to give me shame
And I felt not one bit of pain
When both my eyebrows were erased
I wouldn’t see Grandpa again
After tweezing, I was not fazed
The metal plates would keep me sane
To numb me from all of my pain
With a sharpie, I’ll stroke the plain
Brow lines all over once again.