You know those little hairs? The tiny, tiny black ones that all of a sudden appear, like a flock of nits on your brow bone? They are driving me mad. I’ve never been one for eyebrows; I don’t get them shaped, or waxed, or semi-permanently tattooed on, but at the same time, I’m not a fan of the mono-brow. I like to look – how should I say it… polished. I’m not after fashionable, or God forbid, young; I’m just after polished. You know, refined? As if I take care of myself.
It’s all an illusion of course, but that’s okay with me. So, back to the flock of nits – I mean the tiny hairs. Each nit is the minute end of a big wiry black eyebrow hair taunting me with its presence and the presence of its friends. It’s too damn tiny to be plucked, but too damn big to be ignored. My only hope is to wear my fringe floppy until they are long enough to be plucked.
How is it that they come all at once? They work in packs. They’re nowhere to be seen one day, and the next day they practically knock me out when I look in the mirror in the morning.
Mind you, I have my dad’s wiry eyebrows. Thanks dad. Each one is is like a steel girder that appears to be welded into my skin. Tweezers are great, but they need to be heavy duty, and as soon as they lose their… tweeziness, they have to go. I go through tweezers like I go through… I think the saying is knickers, but to be honest I still have knickers that I wore when I was a teenager, in fact I think I have about 60 pairs of knickers in an array of shapes, sizes, colours and degrees of elasticity. The predominant colour is grey and, I kid you not, in a rare fumble the other day, my husband compared the feel of them to sandpaper. What a turn on huh? I bet you can’t wait for my blog on how to seduce your husband.
The other thing about my eyebrows is that they do whatever the hell they want. They truly do not give a shit about which way I brush them, or what oil I put on them, or what clear mascara I use to try and flatten them. They seem to like the world – they want to rush out and meet everyone way before I do. They stick out, they wave around, they do the macarena. They do everything else except what I want them to do – which is to lie down, keep still and be compliant. Mind you, who blames them – who wants to do that?
In my desire to look polished, I have plucked my eyebrows for years. When I was young (20 plus years ago) the high arched razor thin eyebrow was the zenith of cool, so that’s what I aimed for. It was a mistake. I know I’m not the only one who did this. There are thousands of getting-to-be-a-bit-old-but-don’t-want-to-admit-it-women like me out there who plucked for Britain, only to be told (when they finally mastered it) that the best kind of eyebrows were the big, natural, slug-like ones. Typical. I had those in the eighties, but who wanted them then?
We’re a funny breed. We all have to draw our eyebrows in now, with little pencils or brushes, because there are great big bald gaps where eyebrows used to be. So here is my situation. I have a combination of bald patches, unruly wires and flocks of nits. It’s not very polished, I can tell you.