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| {me and my eyebrows, by Lily aged 5} |
I've always quite liked my eyebrows.
Sort of Natalie Portman's crossed with Keira Knightley's (in my imagination).
Not as bushy as Brooke's, no evidence of a Frida monobrow and certainly not a Gwen-ish overplucked look.
I never did anything to them. (Too scared to pluck or wax).
It was with great trepidation that I finally let a beautician near them a year or two ago - I checked after every twitch of the tweezer and I must say I was impressed with the neater result.
Completely surprisingly to me, people noticed. Mostly favourably.
And so we've gone on - I get them done when I remember but I warn them each time that I'm nervous and I really "don't want much done"
Until this week when Cheryl and I were gossiping away and suddenly she went "oh" and I knew that that "oh" wasn't a good "oh" for me or my eyebrows.
I'm sure they'll grow back (eventually)
I'll suppress the urge to draw them in with pencil (or red paint).
I'll just let people marvel at my amazingly pink skin and green fangs instead.
