My eyebrows are apparently consuming my entire face. With the spirit of manifest destiny, they’re supposedly annexing every uncovered patch of skin. How it came to this, I’m not sure. I had a normal childhood, but sometime between thanksgiving weekend and yesterday, the offending brows proliferated into regions reserved for eyeglasses and forehead wrinkles. I swear I’m not growing grizzly bears on my forehead, but people are starting to make me worry.
At a brunch Mandrew and I host, a certain guest and I gossip about how frigid Mother Nature is being this time of year (a.k.a. polite/eye-rolling weather chit chat). When the conversation runs its course, this guest leans in and says, “I couldn’t help but notice that you don’t pluck your eyebrows. Good for you! Manscaping is overrated.” With a pat on the back, he walks away. I cower over to the bathroom to make sure my eyebrows haven’t suddenly joined in hairy matrimony.
A week later I’m once again staring in a mirror, having my hair cut. The stylist is on a mission to sell me a year supply of hair product. She’s getting nowhere by using lines like, “Is your hair always this frizzy? Well I recommend…,” and “If you’d only use a flat iron, this hair gloss…”
She brings me over to the sink and shampoos my hair. The spray nozzle grazes my nose and splashes my eyeglasses. She’s slightly more gifted than a 3 yr old icing a gingerbread house. She pulls the towel over my hair and pauses to tilt her head. “Hmm…Do you need me to wax your eyebrows? Cause I can do that,” she nods with an encouraging smirk.
I sigh internally, and for a half second, I consider the possibility. Does she see something I don’t? But then the image of David Bowie’s brows comes to mind, and I’m cured. I’ll take my chances with the grizzlies.
Water drips down my face, but nothing gets in my eyes as I tell her, “No, I don’t believe in waxing my eyebrows, but thanks for offering.”
(Photo: phobus)
