I wish I had eyebrows. I feel at this point in my life, they’d serve me well. I’d love to be able to arch one brow on occasion, knowingly, questioningly, alluringly. I’d love to be able to twitch them both at the same time, playfully, or to be able to furrow them in a moment of deep thought. I could really use a pair of well defined eyebrows.
Instead I’ve got these wispy blond things, that are both shaggy and thin at the same time. Mere suggestions of what real eyebrows could and should be. Not only that, but they’re lopsided. And droopy. I do the best with what I’ve got. I try to brush a little color on them each morning, but I’m not convinced I’m fooling anyone.
When I was a little girl I once asked my mom to draw in some eyebrows for me. And instead of giving me sensible little-girl brows, she went a little artsy with me. She pulled out her jet black eyebrow pencil and gave me thick, dark, and dramatic swooping brows — the kind that that a drag queen might sketch in for a Broadway performance where she’s playing a villain of some sort.
I was a little put off by eyebrows for a long time after that.
But now when I see women with lucious furry brows, I get a little jealous. Have you seen Madonna’s daughter’s eyebrows? Holy moly. Sure they’re a bit Frido Kahlo-esque in this one particular picture (she’s since tamed them quite a bit), but tell me you don’t see amazing potential here. With brows like that, she can do anything. 
eleven bee 