Wednesday, October 13, 2010
I'd like to talk to you about my eyebrows.
See, I feel like we have this understanding, you and I. We can share things. We can tell each other our geeky dreams, our goofy nightmares, and our girly homicidal urgings. Right?
So, here's the thing: I have these eyebrows. And they're, well, opinionated. They like to be seen. They're also stubborn and pretty kinky, but maybe I shouldn't get into that just yet. Besides, the main problem is the astonishing rate at which my opinionated eyebrows reproduce.
At least, I'm assuming they reproduce. You know, in some bizarre mitosis manner, where when one is plucked out two more spring up to take their fallen comrade's place. Then they scream "death to Jen's forehead!!" in their scritchy little voices and march all night towards ear and nose country.
What, you think I'm exaggerating? Well, maybe just a little. About the scritchy voices. The fact remains, however, that I'm the only person I know whose eyebrows get a 5 o'clock shadow. Seriously! And I don't shave them! I pluck! Let's throw another exclamation mark in here!
So back in my twenties, I declared war. And, ok, I may have gotten a little overzealous. I may have spent too much time watching YouTube makeup tutorials by pretty girls who draw their eyebrows in. I may have thought I could "pull this look off."
I'll spare you the suspense: I can't.
In fact, I spent that phase looking both perpetually surprised and angry. Not a good combo. John looks back on photos of that time and calls it my "witchy-face stage." Also not good.
You'd think I'd have learned my lesson, but occasionally I still fall prey to the just-one-more-to-even-it-up madness. Then I survey the damage and vow that this time I'm growing out some perfect Jennifer Connelly eyebrows.
About a week or two later I remember: I look nothing like Jennifer Connelly. (Dang it.)
Instead, let's focus on who to blame.
Personally, I'm gonna have to go with my Jewish roots. My big, thick, dark Jewish roots. Sure, ok, I don't need mascara. But at what price, people? AT WHAT PRICE? (And don't get me started on shaving my legs: I'm basically an ambulatory cactus by the time I towel off.)
Well, I suppose I could wave the white flag. Give up. Go "au natural."
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