My mom took me for my first eyebrow wax when I was fourteen. The technician told me that if I started plucking now (1992), in ten years, they wouldn’t grow back. I plucked twice a day for years. I checked again in 2002. They were still growing back.
My mom also said I’d appreciate my brows someday. I disagreed.
In high school, Lupe and friends cornered me after school and tried to make me confess to drawing in my eyebrows. “Only Mexican girls have eyebrows like that,” she said. “Maybe I’m Mexican?” I replied.
I started noticing everyone’s eyebrows, and when that happened, I realized they are the best accessory we have.
Yesterday, after 24 years of plucking, I bought some eyebrow oil to help my eyebrows grow. My fourteen year old self can-not-believe-it. “All of my work,” she screamed. My threading guru tells me I can never pluck again. We’ll see.
For ages, I thought I was the only one who had constructed my sense of self around (my perception of) my eyebrows. Earlier this year, I found out I am not. A gag gift, turned most perfect gift ever, from a friend found my teenage self her twin sister. Here is the love letter I sent to the author. I thought we could start an eyebrow therapy group. (Unabrow: Misadventures of a Late Bloomer is hilarious.)
Last night, I told my husband, after years of plucking, I was going to buy a brow pencil so that I could have Kim Kardashian brows. He looked at me, “After a decade together, I never thought I’d say to you, do not try to be like the Kardashians.”