Cut The Thread, Already
There’s not many sights that will make the average New Yorker recoil on the sidewalk. Window displays featuring headless mannequins in mesh jock straps waving the American flag? Of course. Giant inflatable rat poised to attack a callous Duane Reade? A no-brainer. Homeless man relieving himself on the side of Starbucks? When you gotta go, you gotta go. A woman getting her face sewn up on 24 hour telecast?
Oh, but yes. There she is. All day, all night on the corner of Eighth and 23rd. She’s rocking the needle when I walk to work in the morning and feeling the darn when I stumble home drunk at 3 in the morning. Now, I don’t know what eyebrow threading is. I do know, however, that the procedure looks like something out of Abu Grhaib. And whatever this procedure is supposed to do for someone, (more eyebrows? less eyebrows? macramé eyebrows?) I don’t really care. But for some reason, the sick bastards who run the Unique Threading Salon have decided that their services require a permanent visual cue describing what one can look forward to inside. And it’s absolutely nauseating.
Now, clearly people want to be threaded. The place does sufficient business that they can pay some vagrants to slap on some sandwich board and throw leaflets at those passing by. But turn off the damn TV! I mean, other businesses don’t do this. Gynecologists don’t broadcast their trade on the sidewalk. If you need the service, you just know.
It’s time to fade to black, Unique Threading Salon. Pull the plug. Torture in private. That’s the American way, after all.