I have really great naturally-arched eyebrows. Like ideal. Like St. Louis wishes.
Unfortunately, while blessed with shape, I was terribly smited when The Universe was distributing hairs.
My perfect-shaped eyebrows are made up of only a delicate single-layer of hairs; Instead of glorious statement-making, face-framing brows, mine are invisible if you’re standing more than 3 feet away. If I don’t fill them in, I go full-on Tilda Swinton alien face.
This is my cross to bear.
I used to be more subtle, but in the last few years I’ve gotten into bold makeup and now I own every eyebrow product on the market, which has resulted in brows that, on a scale of 1=Natural to 10=There’s a Cruel Meme About Me Somewhere on The Internet, are never less than a 4.
However, I’ve noticed recently that their severity–how big, dark, and fake-as-fuck they look–ticks up in direct relation to the how much anxiety or loathing I’m feeling toward the assholes in my life.
And right now I’m absolutely drowning in assholes.
I’m four months out a relationship that’s still a monkey on my back (a slender, bald, cheating, monkey baring its teeth and hurling its shit at me) and I’m also back on the dating scene, which is the best way to suddenly see the world through Criminal Minds-colored glasses. Therefore, I’m Fuck You eyebrows everyday lately.
When I’m more content, I play with products that offer a more natural look– barely-there brow powders and soft pencils in universal shades like Taupe and Caramel and No One Is Looking At You Anyway.
But there’s something empowering about using makeup to weaponize your face and communicate that you aren’t here for anyone’s shit (and also that maybe you are an insane person).
It’s weird, I know, but I’m weird, so I’ve come to expect these things of myself.
Soon, I’ll share the saga of the shit-throwing monkey and catch up on my last few dates, but for now may the weekend bring you only unremarkable taupe eyebrows. Amen.