On the bus today, we passed a sign on which I could not keep myself from commenting: “Eyebrow Care.” Indigo picked up on the humor immediately. “This one needs care,” she said solemnly, pointing to her right eyebrow. “It has the flu.”
We riffed on that for a minute (hospitalization would not be required; the left eyebrow provided good care to the right one), but my conscience was bothering me. As I said to my daughter, I shouldn’t poke fun at people who seek out “eyebrow care.” It’s easy for her and me to laugh, because we are blessed with socially-approved eyebrows. She was surprised at first to hear that some eyebrows are widely considered in need of alteration, and wanted to know what kind.
“Oh, if they’re too thick,” I said, “or meet in the middle.”
“But then they’d look like Frida Kahlo!” she exclaimed. The implication was clearly What could be cooler, and I agreed, silently giving thanks for a brilliant obsessive self-portraitist who saw no reason to pretend her eyebrows were other than they were.
“. . . Or Count Olaf,” she added, her expression growing slightly grim.