The 90s were an interesting time for eyebrows.
I recently read some gossipy interview with a beauty expert who blamed Pamela Anderson for the pencil-thin, exaggerated arches we all forced our brows into. I am not sure this is true. At the height of the trend, I read a different gossipy interview with a beauty expert who said the fullness of our brows was inversely proportionate to the economic climate.
What I do know is that this trend was fun for a Type-A personality with self-destructive tendencies. The time I spent in front of a magnifying mirror stabbing with slanted tweezers at the downy blond wisps nobody else could see was justified. It was beauty, baby.
Annie wasn’t a compulsive plucker, but she observed enough of my neuroses to know that a little shaping and clean-up was necessary.
Only Katy ignored the visage of the times. She was perfectly fine with her thick Brooke Shields brows.
Sometimes I offered to tweeze some of her strays for her. She would take one look at the splotchy, swollen folds of my eyelids and say no.
One day I found Annie sitting on the couch watching TV, a blob of white cream glistening between her eyes.
“Annie, what is that?”
“Why the heck do you have Nair on your face?”
“I’m hoping Katy will take a hint.”
We had a good laugh over that, but our mirth was cut short when Annie’s face started to burn.
“It hurts! It hurts!” she howled.
“Put some soap on it!”
“Ow! No, don’t touch me! It hurts!”
“Oh my god, you are turning red!”
“Make it stop!”
Ultimately, Katy had the last laugh. And today, she has the best brows.