I have concluded that two eyebrows are better than one.
Let me back up. I’m not saying that there’s a huge push towards sporting a one-eyebrow look. Nor am I saying that people with unibrows are somehow less than the rest of us. And finally, let me dispel any notions that I am talking about galaxy-traveling aliens or deep sea-dwelling creatures with only one eye – and by extension – only one eyebrow.
Hmmm. This explanation is not going all that well.
Let’s start from the start then, somewhere around five years ago. Desperate for a haircut, I pulled into a parking lot off of Greenville Avenue and walked into, I think, a Supercuts. Or maybe it was a ProCuts. Or Cuts-R-Us. Or The Cutting Edge. Or A Cut Above. Or Cut’n’Run. I don’t really remember, but it wasn’t the Follicle Factory, the Follicle Follies or the Haircut Hut either. I’ll just cut to the chase – ha ha, I said cut – and call it a barbershop.
Well, in this particular barbershop lived a mid-sized African-American man I’ll call Jesse. I can’t recall his name, but Jesse fits. Somehow. Anyway, this dude was slicker than Tupperware on kitchen tile. I mean, here we were in 2003 or so, and this guy was decked out in a black Member’s Only jacket, black parachute pants and topped off with a head full of Jeri curls that would make Jermaine Jackson go cryin’ to his momma.
Now you might not think it from that incredibly accurate description, but Jesse clearly had it going on; the guy was cool beans from the get-go. It must have been the duds that were holding him back, because quite frankly, he was Michelangelo with those scissors of his. I don’t know what he was doing in some Podunk barbershop, I don’t pry that way, but this man was obviously performing several levels above this particular pay grade. But awesome though it was, my haircut wasn’t what impressed me the most.
See, what happened was, as soon as he finished off with the clippers, he put an attachment on it and before I could blink, he swiped it across my eyebrows in two quick swashes.
I was practically beside myself with amazement. I had no idea you could do that. I just figured eyebrows - in general - were untouchable, and sooner or later in life, I’d have Senator’s Eyebrows just like Ted Kennedy, Strom Thurmond and old people in general.
But Jesse had just turned my world upside down with two simple strokes of a beard trimmer.
Later, I learned this phenomenon’s real name: Manscaping.
Life forever changed, I thanked Jesse, overtipped the living daylights out of him, and walked outside with spirals in my eyes.
Flash-forward to yesterday. After shaving, I grabbed my beard trimmer – bought about five minutes after my revelatory one-two from Jesse, as a matter of fact – and carefully placed the spacer guard over the blades. It was time.
Being a five-year pro at this, I figured hey, it’s second nature by now. So I brought the trimmer up to my face, readied myself and quickly, expertly and gracefully swiped left to right and took off my right eyebrow.
Somehow I had botched the setup. A quick check of the razor told me it was true. I had messed it up. I couldn't blame anyone else. It was me. I was my own eyebrow killer.
Now I’m no Peter Gallagher or Sylar from Heroes. I’m not even the lead singer of Alabama. But I do have fairly thickish eyebrows. Two of them, in fact. But this was like a reverse Highlander.
There can be only one.
I stood there and looked at the alien mutant in the mirror. Half human, half Borg. I had to act fast before I lost my nerve, and since resistance was futile anyway, I closed my eyes and did the other one. You know, to even it up.
The upshot is, I don’t look near as bad as you might think. The downshot is it’ll take a couple weeks to get back to what might reasonably pass as normal. But that’s okay, I’ve got a kid now, I can lay low and maybe, just maybe, be passable by Thanksgiving.
Or I can embrace the situation. Maybe I’ll write “Eyebrow! The Musical.” Or try to pass myself off as Whoopi Goldberg’s brother.
One thing’s for sure: Congress is definitely out of the question. For now.