It’s so hard to recall exactly when, but I believe that junior high was about the time my hair betrayed me. Not one who easily embraces change, when my heretofore tow headed nest began having darker roots, I was not happy. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not that I think blondes really do have more fun (they do! they do!) or live some magical fair-haired life (champagne & caviar… dancing til dawn… it’s all true!). It’s just that I had been blonde my whole life, was accustomed to it and then BAM… the betrayal begins. There were of course, the positive points of turning brunette (thinking… thinking… surely, there is a positive point). Finally, I would be taken seriously! No more dumb blonde jokes (Who cares? I didn’t get them anyway!) But sadly, even that wasn’t enough to keep me away from the L’Oreal aisle at Harco Drug Store lo, those many years ago. And so it began, though now I’m a Garnier Gal. Since that time, my hair and I have had a strict “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy. I don’t ask what color it really is by now and it doesn’t tell me.
But these damn brows of mine. Curses! Today, as I was using my super-fabulous Mr. Tweezer that Sally gave me for Christmas a while back, I saw it. Right there in the magnified mirror so that its existence was amplified to the fifth degree! Not blonde. Not brunette. Not black. White. White. WHITE!
It seems that when I carefully plotted my perfect plan of denial with my somewhat loyal hair, I completely failed to include my brows. Offended maybe? Feeling left out perhaps? Whatever the reason, they have extracted their revenge. Of course I’m now googling the myths… pluck one and three come back? True or not? I’ll let you know, ‘cause that sucker is G-O-N-E. I’m currently in negotiations with my eyebrows to pull them into the policy loop, but I fear my initial thought is true. Brows don’t lie.
“I'm not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I'm not dumb... and I also know that I'm not blonde.” Dolly Parton
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