"What? I don't see anything?" I announced while looking oustide and noting nothing was unusual.
"Your eyebrows! Geez...get those things fixed. That one's at least 2 inches long," she lovingly brought to my attention.
Suddenly feeling like a hideously gruesome troll or the long-lost missing link, I console myself that there is no way they are that bad.
It's not like I have a huge, singular monobrow that is thick and stretches from temple to temple like a prehistoric wooly caterpillar laying across my forehead. Likewise, I know for a fact that my eyebrows aren't like a 1970's hairdo that requires a thorough brushing with lots of hairspray/shellac to maintain the classic feathered look. Her ghastly comment had me wonder if overnight I had morphed into some mutated freak.
I envisioned peeking in the mirror and seeing something like this poor dude. Egads...if I looked in the mirror and saw this, I might call 911 while running and shrieking to the garage for industrial strength tools and start hacking. Knowing I'm the not overly cosmetic, maybe I've neglected this issue that never struck me as an issue. So, because of the comment, I reluctantly entered the the bathroom and the dreaded mirror.
Cautiously, I glance into the mirror expecting to see sasquatch looking back at me with eyebrows gone bad. After the quick peek and noticing nothing out of control, I take a second, longer look and pull back.
Hmm...I wonder what she is talking about? I muster up the courage to take a good long stare for a close inspection and see a wayward hair. It wasn't like a unicorn horn sticking out to potentially skewer innocent bystanders, but yes, I'll admit it was out of place. But, it's only a single hair on a head of thousands. So, I reached up and swiped it across the others to get it to behave and, boing, it popped back up. Oh well, it's being stubborn, so I repeat the wiping motion and it bounces back like a prize fighter refusing to be knocked out. Oh yea, well take this, I tell the wayward hair as I drop it with a scissor snip. Fearing I did not possess the necessary critical eyebrow judging or grooming skills, I inform my wife that I had errands to run.
Unbeknownst to her, and wanting to avoid scaring ladies, young children and babies, I went to the nearby, newly opened barbershop/salon to see if they could "fix" my eyebrows. I walked in and immediately noticed idle employees keeping each other company. Uh-oh, no business can be a forecast of the quality of the business, but I'm committed to see this through.
I approach the counter where the attendant asked what I needed. Oh great! She has no eyebrows! Her's are gone and replaced with a crayon scribble over her eyes!
Sheepishly, I request an eyebrow trim. Really? Did I just say that out loud? Am I the first person to ever put those two words together? Eyebrow trim! How ridiculous!
I'm told to have a seat in the waiting area. Oh...okay. I can see this place is packed...should I take a number like I'm at a deli? Holy shit, look at that other gal's eyebrows! They're missing, too! But, her solution is painting a thick, upside down Nike swoosh over each eye! Puh-leeze, please, please don't let her be my eyebrow fixer-upper!
"Good day, sir, please come back to my chair," requests a man with short hair with the pattern of the devil's horns carved on each side of his head. Really? What is this place? Am I that old and out of touch? Oh well, at least he has normal looking eyebrows...
Uncertain of the procedure, I glance around his tidy workstation. Am I going to get tweezed? Threaded? Hot waxed? Straight-razored? Singed by a flamethrower? I only notice a variety of combs and scissors. But those other torturous instruments might be concealed in a drawer. Watch his every move!
I sit in the chair and he proceeds to explain that they do hair cuts. I cut my own, thanks...but are you trying to tell me something? And they trim moustaches. Mine looks alright...but are you trying to tell me something? And they do shaves. Okay, I have a 5 o'clock shadow, but I can operate my own razor, thanks. Then he covers me in a smock and secures it around my neck. Really? Are you truly expecting loads of trimmings to roll off my brows to actually require this garment?
He raises scissors and a comb and began working on my eyebrows (I think he used the word "sculpt"). In no time, he's done and removes the apron with a snap like he's shaking out a rug. I pay at the counter. Dude! I see you sweeping up around your chair like a poodle got massacred by a dog groomer! C'mon, that doesn't represent!
I hop in the car and lean forward to the rearview mirror to check out the brand new me. Based on popular opinion, my vision should have cleared like an Old English Sheepdog getting a facial, but I do not notice any differnce in my field of vision or my eyebrows.
I return home to show off the new and improved me. And, my fancy, styled and sculpted eyebrows initially go unnoticed. I say nothing, but during supper my wife notices and is: 1) shocked that I actually went to a salon and, 2) amazed that someone had successfully bushwhacked through my jungle brows.
Really?
I still contend, that at the very worst, my eyebrows were like a putting green needing an unnecessary touch up...
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