Dear the two strips of hair I have obsessed over more than any other: my eyebrows,
You started out so promising. Being of European heritage I was ‘blessed’ with ample body hair, and you were no exception.
Looking back on childhood photos I see jet black, bushy brows with a hint of a monobrow. It’s a miracle none of my classmates teased me about you.
You started to bug me when I was about 10 — young, I know. But in my defence, it was the late ’90s. The girls in my tween magazines had thin, perfectly groomed blonde brows, not big, hairy caterpillars like you guys were. No offence.
Claire and her (excellent) brows today.
I began to notice that, once a week or so, my mother sat in the living room with her hand mirror and plucked her eyebrows. I begged her to let me do the same to you and she hesitantly agreed, warning me to "not go crazy" with the tweezers.
Looking back now, I see that I should have listened to her. You really didn't need much grooming. If I'd only gotten rid of the hairs that grew rebelliously in the middle of you guys and maybe a few strays, I could have grown up to rival Cara Delevigne! Well, in the eyebrow department at least.
Alas, I did not listen to my mother.
Plucking is addictive. If I ever have a daughter, I will tell her to just say "no" to plucking, as if it is an illicit drug. If she shows an interest in eyebrow grooming, it will be professional waxes or nothing for her.