Dear Eyebrows,

I wasn’t always so aware of you, you furry little bastards. There was a blissful period of my life where I wasn’t clued in to the fact that there were two thick, wool socks permanently stuck to the area above my eyes. But, nothing good can ever really last, can it? The fact that Pretty Wild only lasted one season is definitive proof of that fact.

I’ll never forget riding in the car with my dad around age 12, when out of nowhere, he turned to me and said, “We have to do something about those Fu Manchu eyebrows of yours.”  Per my default response to my parents for most of the early 2000’s, I rolled my eyes and muttered “whatever.” I got you waxed, and as with every other aspect of my appearance didn’t really give a s$%& about you again until high school.*

Recently I discovered that you both grow up, not out like you’re supposed to. Instead you choose to grow more in the direction that a box topiary does. I would imagine this is due to the fact that I shaved you off around age 6, but I honestly don’t thank that constitutes this level of betrayal.

Why can’t you behave more like my mother’s eyebrows? Due to a combination of her OCD over-plucking and scowling she was able to create a hostile forehead situation where no hair grows anymore. Prominent brows are in you say? Cool, but you two look more Sloth from The Goonies than Cara Delevingne. Take several seats.

I don’t even know why I bother with you anymore, honestly. Despite the waxing, and the constant plucking, you still insist on growing like an invasive plant species. I guess there really isn’t anything else left to say, except that I’m sure I’ll take about you in therapy someday.

Regrettably Yours,

Grace

*college, if we’re being honest