I normally am the sort who sashays in twice a year to get facials done, and the rhino hide peeled off to revealed some modicum of skin underneath, and some highlights put in and voila, the rest of the year goes in a haze of home maintenance, but the other day I realised that the eyebrows could do with a professional hand to straighten them from the uneven caterpillars they’d become, lending a perma surprised look to my face, which I had begun to use to my advantage by looking at strange people on the roads, turning them into blathering confused masses of flesh, leaving the unlawful task they had in mind behind running off in haste. Including those spitting on the road. Or planning to. Not that it was a sight that one would look at with any great interest. Anyway.
I digress. And now I return. To the local parlour where I wandered in to have the girl do my eyebrows. She started her task methodically enough and then paused in her tracks and stared hard. And then got out a ruler. I kid you not. A ruler. The kind the kid has in his pencil box and runs around whacking all and sundry with. And put the damn thing on my forehead and took some mental notes. And I swear I could hear the cogs and wheeels in her brain whirring on overdrive. She then took an eyebrow pencil and made some marks and stood back and stared. And invited me to view her handiwork. I had managed, on my own, with absolutely no outside help, managed to singlehandedly (wow, what an achievement) to thin down one eyebrow at least oneforth of a centimeter as compared with the second eyebrow and the arch was nice and sharp in one and sleekly rounded in the other.
Is that why the spouse recently asked me if I was pulling a Lalita Pawar?
Moral of the story: I will now get my brows to the parlour or let them run riot.