Eyebrow grooming is always something that sneaks up on me. It’s as if overnight my regular eyebrows transform into one eyebrow. It’s always shocking and I feel disappointed in the imaginary fairies that haven’t been manicuring my face. The last time I had to pull out the tweezers my father happened to pass by and as a man of hairy Italian decent, eyebrow tweezing is a foreign concept to him.

As I flinch with a particularly tough hair my father stops and stares, “Are you bleeding?”

“A little bit.”

The poor man was horrified. Beauty is pain is not paradigm that exists in his world. No one has ever asked him to change his appearance and no one ever will. I admit that it is ultimately my choice what I do to my body but I’ve been so conditioned to find my own hair unacceptable.

The first day of summer my white legs saw this year I happened to look down and see a rogue hair. I felt repulsion and invasion as if there were an insect attached to my skin. My initial disgust was then replaced by disappointment, how had I not noticed a hair long enough to let it grow long? Had my blind-without-his-glasses fiancé noticed?

How had I managed to miss this crucial issue? Because I was busy living my life and that’s okay. Yes I was upset with myself for this mistake but I’m more upset at my reaction. How sad that I had felt such shame for something so trivial, something almost no one else would have ever noticed.

I really hope this is something I outgrow.


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