Typically the stylist person will compliment me on how nice my hair is and that I'll never go bald. I have what some might call a "jew fro," thanks in large part to Italian and Russian jew-itage. After growing my dome out during the winter, it was time to snip those locks off and send them to the cleanup effort in the Gulf.
After Juan finished up, he asked "would you like me to trim your brows?"
I paused. This wasn't something I was accustomed to being asked.
"No, it's OK," I replied as I started envisioning all the potential disastrous outcomes. His hand could slip and I'd end up with one eyebrow and if I've learned anything from TLC and Oprah, beauty is all about symmetry. So, I'd have to sacrifice the perfectly good, bushy brow for the sake of beauty. Then each day I'd have to get up early to draw on my eyebrows. I never was good at art, whether it was crayons, colored pencils or a paintbrush. Then there would be the decision of what type of brows I wanted for the upcoming day. I could craft angry brows, confused brows, pensive. Infinite possibilities.
"But they are so bushy," he interrupted my mental freak out.
I remained silent wondering if I could purchase eyebrow stencils.
"Well, if you think you look good," he said before he took the superhero cape off, flinging my dead hair to the floor.
Well, I did think I looked good before I met you. I put on my hat and headed back into the rain toward my car where, once inside, I would put down the visor and stare at my eyebrows.
"Bushy?" I thought to myself as my face morphed in the small mirror into that of Groucho Marx.
