You may have noticed (and kindly refrained from mentioning) that I am afflicted with a bad case of supercilii invisibilia: in layman’s terms, invisible eyebrows.
My quality of life isn’t greatly diminished, except for when I want to look quizzical or nefarious and can’t muster the proper perceptible facial expression. I am also forced to add audible cues to my reactions of surprise (gasp), dismay (moan), and murderous rage (growl) in order to make myself fully understood to friends and family.
Despite the fact that I’ve learned to adapt to my infirmity, I have lately been experimenting with a highly technical procedure known coloquially as “drawing on my eyebrows”. Using a variety of methods—pencil, brush, pomade—I have attempted to add color to the pale filaments of my existing eyebrows, dreaming all the while of the majestic sweep of full and lustrous arches over my supraorbital ridges. The more fool me. Alas, my results looked very much like the artistic output of an average first grader.
Why am I sharing this? Because, though I had hoped to add eyebrow sculpting to my list of quarantine accomplishments, I have decided instead to throw in the towel and finally learn to love my supercilii the way they are—undetectable to the naked eye.
Thank you all for your love and support, and don’t forget to show the same compassion to other insufficiently pigmented people who have not yet achieved my level unflappable resignation. There are dozens of us out there! Probably. I haven’t met any yet, but perhaps they’re just better at drawing than I am.