Just as I was settling down into this calm, empty nest and feeling pretty smug about surviving the Terrible Twos and the Angst-ridden Adolescents, just when I thought I was finished dealing with my share of the rebellion in this world, suddenly, in my twilight years, when things are supposed to be smooth, with no more foot-stomping "I do it by self!", with no more eye-rolling "Whatever!", I am now faced with the most insidious battle of all: The Belligerent Brows.
What happened? I look in the mirror and apparently Andy Rooney left me his eyebrows in his will! His white ones! There are some that are three inches long. The ones that are not making little corkscrews are reaching for my earlobes.
There are black ones too. I've never had black eyebrows before in my life! To think I wasted all those years trying to perfect little strokes with eyebrow pencils and brush-on eyebrow powder in an attempt to transform my pale blond eyebrows into visible ones. But are they the nice, silky smooth dark eyebrows I longed for as a girl? No-o-o. These are the consistency of a broom straw and just as straight. They poke horizontally out at the world.
No problem, you say. Grab those eyebrow tweezers. But here is another irony of middle, okay past-middle, age. To see up close enough to pluck my eyebrows I need reading glasses. If I am wearing reading glasses, I can't reach my eyebrows to pluck them.
I try a magnifying mirror. OH MY GOSH! That is way more than I wanted to see!
So now I'm faced with a dillema: Do I pluck out all these rebellious eyebrows that will not lie down or smooth out? Every one? Because if I do, I will be bald there. There is nothing left but bristle brows. The eyebrows of my youth have disappeared. Well, maybe they have not totally disappeared. I think they flew south.
I might have I spotted them on my upper lip the other day.
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