Getting plucked
If I had a daughter, I'd give her one piece of essential advice.
Don't pluck your eyebrows. Unless you have a tragic monobrow. Even then, think about cultivating your artistic side. Or become a hipster. Or a muppet.
Sure, there is better advice out there, and I'd proffer it as well, but this one little tip would save her years of woe.
I am blonde. A real blonde. I've got highlights, yeah, but my base colour is very light.
I am not a hairy person.
I had never thought much about my eyebrows until one day I was innocently perusing lipsticks at the Clinique counter. The young woman working behind it -- who was wearing an avalanche of makeup -- came over and scrunched her forehead.
"You need to get your brows done," she said in a disapproving tone.
I looked at her, nonplussed. "Why?"
"They're unruly." She pushed one of those lighted mirrors at me. "Take a look."
I looked, I really did. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. In fact, I could barely see my eyebrows.
"You have to go. Now." There was something about the way she said it -- a matter of life and death. I could smell her gum-scented breath mixed in with "Happy" perfume. I remember feeling slightly woozy.
She thrust a card into my hand. "Here. Go see Anna".
She gently took me by the shoulders and steered me toward the hair salon that was just outside the kiosk. I walked as if in a trance.
Anyway, I could drag this one out but I'm getting bored. And if I'm getting bored, you must be wriggling with impatience.
Let's just say I got my eyebrows done. Now they petulantly demand regular grooming. If I don't, I scare young children and make them cry.
It's painful, pulling hair out from the thin skin by your eye. Very painful.
Yes, if I had a daughter, I'd tell her to embrace her wild and wooly eyebrows.
Luckily, I have a son.
Don't pluck your eyebrows. Unless you have a tragic monobrow. Even then, think about cultivating your artistic side. Or become a hipster. Or a muppet.
Sure, there is better advice out there, and I'd proffer it as well, but this one little tip would save her years of woe.
I am blonde. A real blonde. I've got highlights, yeah, but my base colour is very light.
I am not a hairy person.
I had never thought much about my eyebrows until one day I was innocently perusing lipsticks at the Clinique counter. The young woman working behind it -- who was wearing an avalanche of makeup -- came over and scrunched her forehead.
"You need to get your brows done," she said in a disapproving tone.
I looked at her, nonplussed. "Why?"
"They're unruly." She pushed one of those lighted mirrors at me. "Take a look."
I looked, I really did. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. In fact, I could barely see my eyebrows.
"You have to go. Now." There was something about the way she said it -- a matter of life and death. I could smell her gum-scented breath mixed in with "Happy" perfume. I remember feeling slightly woozy.
She thrust a card into my hand. "Here. Go see Anna".
She gently took me by the shoulders and steered me toward the hair salon that was just outside the kiosk. I walked as if in a trance.
Anyway, I could drag this one out but I'm getting bored. And if I'm getting bored, you must be wriggling with impatience.
Let's just say I got my eyebrows done. Now they petulantly demand regular grooming. If I don't, I scare young children and make them cry.
It's painful, pulling hair out from the thin skin by your eye. Very painful.
Yes, if I had a daughter, I'd tell her to embrace her wild and wooly eyebrows.
Luckily, I have a son.