lose examination of many of my photographs and my reflection has caused me to realize that I do not have discernable eyebrows. This annoys me, because I do have eyebrows. They’re just very blonde. While the hair on my head has darkened over the years, the rest of my body hair (what little I have) has not.
So while the scantness and blondness of my hair is actually a blessing on areas like my arms, legs, and ladybits, on my eyebrows, it is not. I am doomed to be the eyebrowless Grima Wormtongue of Florida, condemned to wear black pseudo-goth clothing and be pissed about how Eowyn has VERY nice eyebrows despite also being blonde. I may even have to write Emo poetry about how fucking unfair life was in the great celestial eyebrow handout.
Thing is, I do have very nice eyebrows. It’s just that from certain angles, they don’t show up. Like from straight on. Or from the side. Or from below. Or above. Or diagonal.
BUT THEY’RE THERE.
Now, you could say, Irene… why the stress? Just take a pencil and draw them in.
Uhm. NO. A whole world of NO. I’m from the south and have seen far too many women take the Tammy Faye route of waxing off their eyebrows and then penciling them back in somewhere about 3 feet above their natural browline. These women look perpetually surprised—as if some strange man has jumped in front of them and exposed a huge erection of kidney disturbing proportions. (although upon reflection, drawing your eyebrows up in the middle of your forehead does make it look like you’ve had a bad face lift instead of actually shelling out for one. Hmmmm.)
It’s just wrong. I’m sure done right, its okay, but I’m so cosmetically challenged that I’m still using blue eyeshadow, for fuck’s sake. No way can I be trusted to draw a visible line on my face.
Why the HELL can I not grow discernable eyebrows, but I can grow a nice, healthy blonde mustache? And beard? And sideburns? Why is it that the hair on my lip has more body and shine and bounce than the hair on my head? Why do I suspect the occasional chin whisker would hold a curl better than the professionally treated, highlighted, conditioned to hell and back mop on my head?
Why is my uterus STILL here? I’m done having babies. I have no need for a fist sized ball of muscles that can do absolutely nothing but incubate offspring. If my body were a corporation, I would have downsized it AGES ago, or forced it to crosstrain to do something useful—like, I don’t know, chew food or burn calories or shit golden eggs or something.
But nooooo… all it does is hang around, get drunk, get rowdy, make me retain water and then geyser out enough blood and chunks to choke a horse, mocking me all the while. I choke down gallons and gallons of “Moon Cycle Tea” to appease it and it still goes out and ravages Tokyo while I sleep. And unlike Gamera, radioactive turtle friend of children, my uterus is NO ONE’S friend. It will not save any chubby Japanese children from falling off a lighthouse. It will not fly to a planet on the other side of the sun to save two incredibly stupid, badly dubbed children from having their brains eaten by groovy space chicks.
QWP, naturally, and contextual bliss lies here