By Giana Ciapponi.
My brow fixation began as a little kid, but intensified as I grew older. At age 11, I coveted Cameron Diaz’s brows from The Mask, pining to make mine as lithe and lean as hers. But because I was, you know, literally a child, my mom forbade me to tweeze.
Me + Normal Kids With Normal Brows. Image: Ravishly (supplied)
"Leave your eyebrows alone. They're fine!"
I struggled to find a loophole in her Draconian laws. A ha! Tape! She never said I couldn't use such methods to remove unwanted hairs! So I grabbed some Scotch tape, pressed it to my "must fix" areas on my brows, and yanked away. It didn't hurt. Actually, I found the removed hairs fascinating, in a geeky way.
Yes, I did that until I graduated elementary school. (Post continues after gallery.)
Finally in junior high (in the fall of 2001), I was permitted to tweeze (but not yet to wear makeup). I stood, victorious, against the seashell wallpaper in my bathroom, tweezers poised high.
I took a deep breath, grabbed a hair, and pulled. It was agony!
Briefly, my body writhed in the kind of pain I can only liken to being burned alive while getting repeatedly kicked in the shins. I recoiled, my small body slamming back against that stupid seashell wallpaper. I tried to catch my breath. Then it occurred to me that I had 20 more hairs to pull. Maybe—maybe this second time—it wouldn't hurt.
My eyes swelled with tears, then flowed down my face before the next hair had even left its home in my brow follicle.
I stared back at my tweeny reflection in the mirror. Like a Spartan warrior, I understood: I had to keep fighting. I must endure the pain and conquer my brows. Though I was blind with tears and grasping on the counter to avoid falling, I knew I'd find the strength to prevail. With a silent anguished cry, I continued.