If I ever have a daughter, I will tell her to just say "no" to plucking, as if it is an illicit drug.
This article originally appeared on Mamamia and has been republished with permission.
Dear the two strips of hair I have obsessed over more than any other: my eyebrows,
You’ve been tweezed, waxed and overdrawn to the point that when I look at photos it makes me cringe. I think I owe you an apology.
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 defense, 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 offense.
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.
By the start of secondary school you were way too thin, thanks to months of going crazy with the tweezers.
I now know you guys are most aesthetically pleasing when you line up with the corners of my eyes, but thanks to my overly enthusiastic plucking, you were a few millimetres off on either end.
A few years out of secondary school, I began to notice that the girls in magazines didn't have round, thin eyebrows anymore. Thick brows with fierce arches were all the rage and, once again, I decided you were inadequate.
I made a new friend who had perfect brows. I lusted over them like a woman obsessed. I dragged her with me to a fancy beautician in a fancy, beachside suburb who specialised in eyebrows.
"Would it be possible to make my eyebrows look more like hers?" I asked hopefully.
"Yes," replied the statuesque beautician without batting an eyelid.
This was a lightbulb moment for me. After years of wanting to change you, I realised the eyebrows I was born with actually suited me best.
For the first time I'd admitted I couldn't look after you on my own, and handed you over to the care of an expert. I swore I'd never touch a set of tweezers again.
After a consultation, tint and wax, you were looking more even and better than ever before. Monthly visits to the salon became a non-negotiable part of my routine. For two whole years you went from strength to strength.
Then, the unthinkable happened: my beautician moved without warning. How could she do this to us?
Terrified to try a new beautician, I decided to go straight to a salon that only does eyebrow tinting and waxing. Surely all the staff there would know what they are doing, right?
Wrong.
In the words of Justin Bieber, is it too late now to say sorry?
Last September after yet another disappointing treatment, I walked out of that eyebrow salon and decided I was never going back. Instead, I was going to just let you be, for the first time in 17 years, in the hope that your sparse patches would begin to fill out.
This process ended up being much harder than I bargained for. Your hairs grew back slowly and sporadically. I’m certain you were punishing me.
During this work-in-progress phase, I used a series of brow powders, gels and pencil to disguise your patchiness. Sometimes I REALLY overdid it with the products. I look back on photos of those days and cringe.
I applied castor oil to you nightly, praying the mythical greasy substance would kick-start all your follicles. It helped a little. I think.
One night, I stared in the mirror and realised you and I had come full circle. I was desperate for you to go back to your original, bushy form. I should have just left you alone and accepted you for what you were.
This was a lightbulb moment for me. After years of wanting to change you, I realised the eyebrows I was born with actually suited me best.
How many other physical features I had wasted time obsessing over?
In 10 years time, will I regret all the time I spent sweating for a thigh gap that I will probably never get, contouring my face, and hiding my not-quite-toned enough arms?
"Probably!" screams a voice in my head.
My patience has paid off and you are looking better, and more even, than ever. I occasionally treat you to a tint and wax by a very careful beautician, but mostly I am just letting you be yourselves.
In conclusion, dear eyebrows, I want to say thank you. Thank you for encouraging me to recognise the features that make me, well, me and for pushing me to try to love myself a little more.
I never thought I could learn so much about myself from two little strips of hair.
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