Minty Fresh Brows

I have a single hold out to feminine vanity. I gave up make-up years ago. I rarely wear jewelry anymore. My hair style could be charitably called "functional." But I still pay money to have my eyebrows shaped. It truly is the difference between Cro-Magnon-me and civilized me. This simple grooming act immensely improves my outlook on the world in general and my life in particular, but there is a price to pay.

Once the pale mono-brow has been tamed with hot wax, tweezers and itty-bitty scissors, the stylist applies a special goo to the offended skin to keep the redness down and inhibit a future errant eyebrow crop. This miracle glop must contain menthol or mint of some kind. When I leave the shop, and burst out into the bracing Michigan winter day, the cold hits my upper face like a slap. What is left of my eyebrows instantly ascend into my hairline and tears burst forth. I assume the startled expression of Mrs. Waldersdorf, a neighbor from my childhood. According to local legend, she shaved her eye brows as a teenager and they never grew back. She would pencil in a thin curve over each eye with a red-brown pencil, and every year those mini umbrellas rose higher and higher into her hairline. A very nice lady, but a very scary sight to behold.

Ah well, perhaps some small child who witnessed my exit today is writing/telling her/his friends about the weird lady with the red forehead whose eye’s popped out….