Attack of the monobrow…Gareth May
July 2nd, 2009 | Published in Volume VIII: Lost and Found
It was true. My worst fears were confirmed. My two eyebrows had conspired against me; made a treaty together which would have as cataclysmic consequences as the ill fated and, according to my GCSE text book, Adolph prompting treaty of Versailles. I dramatically ran my clammy fingers down the mirror, hoping, that the tiny sporadic hairs would disappear, in the same way in which they had appeared, in the blink of an eye.
My eyebrows, or should I say eyebrow, arched, as though it was sneering at me and saying: ‘your first ever date and you look like an inbreeder.’
What had driven them to this? Was this action a way of humiliating the rest of my face, which if the truth be known, no longer held precedence as the most wealthy in hair currency. If my face was a Middle-Eastern state, America and her playground sidekick, England, would be bypassing my cheeks, chin and sideburns to get their hands on the abundance of hair resources in the eye region and, as I looked closer, the bridge of my nose as well:
“Jesus, it gets worse. I look like a pervert.” I didn’t look surprised.
It was no good, action had to be taken. The rebel hairs would have to be made an example of and put in their place. I lunged for my razor, my eyebrows dropped. This would need the skill of a surgeon because I didn’t want stubble to form. I had to make it look like I had that red mark that all people who wear glasses get after reading a book for hours.
“What’s that red mark on your face,” Palm would say, “It looks like you have been shav….”
“Oh that, did I not tell you I have to wear glasses? War and Peace is a tremendous read you know.”
Now came the next dilemma: ‘Do I apply shaving foam to the area?’ It might reduce the redness that was true, but it also might make the bridge of my nose incredibly shiny and attract even more attention to my eyebrows. Considering this was my first ever date, forgetting the incident after Sunday school with the local vicar’s daughter of course, I put the foam back on the shelf and leaned into the mirror, tightening my grip on the razor as I did so. I began by sizing up the area as an Army General might survey the enemy’s territory before an ambush. This was uncharted ground for me and I didn’t want to make a mistake. I curved the razor up and down in thin air and nodded, that seemed like the best action.
Applying the softest of pressure I dragged the razor down the edge of my right eyebrow, breathing out harshly when I finished. The area was clean shaven, not a hint of a hair. Now for the other side. I curved the razor round and down with so much skill and accuracy it looked like I had been born to shave my eyebrows. I nodded and smiled, just the bridge of the nose to do. Now, this was tricky. So far the eyebrows were equal length away from each other, but if I took a little bit more off either one they’d be uneven and the game would be up. The trick was to shave the centre of my nose.
I paused for a second. I’d go in at an angle, that way I wouldn’t have to worry about either eyebrow because the blades would not be touching them. I turned the razor in my hand and squinted, one more stroke and I would be home and dry. I applied a little more pressure than I had done for either eyebrow, as the hairs looked more entrenched, and dragged the razor down. Nearly there, nearly there…
“Gareth Mr. Copple’s here!”
My hand lurched upwards and the razor fell to the ground. I watched in horror as a small blob of blood protruded from the bridge of my nose, and trickled down my face.
“Gareth did you hear me?”
I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t move. I was paralysed from the eyebrows down.
“Gareth?”
“Yes mum I’ll be two seconds!”
My mother’s heavy footsteps plodded back into the kitchen. Right, more action had to be taken. The campaign to bring these hairs to justice wasn’t all lost. I’d had this happen to me before, on my chin admittedly, but all the same I knew what I needed – toilet paper. I tore off a corner and stuck it in place. By the time I got downstairs and put on my coat the blood would have congealed and the paper could be removed; leaving nothing, but a tiny red mark, a red-headed spot to anyone but the most observant of eyebrow shavers. Disaster averted. I ruffled my hair, pulled up the collar of my shirt and strutted down the stairs.
My mum was in the kitchen, staking out the car in the drive. She turned towards me, her bubbly, warm face smiling manically.
“She looks very pretty. Oh! My son is going on his first date.” She put her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m so excited for you blossom,” she went to kiss me again, but I pulled away.
“You’re more excited than I am mum, which is worrying.”
“Can’t a mother be happy for her son?”
“Yes but not obsessively, anyone would think it’s your date.”
Her face fell a little.
“I’m only joking.”
Mr. Copple beeped his horn.
“Cheeky bastard,” I said.
“Language Timothy!”
“I’m called Gareth mum,” I said, pulling my coat on and slipping my feet into my shoes.
“Have fun,” my mum said as I opened the front door.
“I’ll try,” I walked out into the rain, closing the door behind me.
Mr. Copple leaned over and opened the passenger door, forcing me to ride next to him. I had hoped to share the back seat with Palm, but Mr.Copple obviously wanted me all to himself.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, “Gary isn’t it?”
“Gareth,” I said turning away.
“Hi Palm, you look nice,” I said, although if the truth be known, I couldn’t really see her. The head rests were too big and every time I got close to making eye contact my neck became twisted and my face contorted into Quasimodo proportions.
“Hey Gareth. Nice to see you.”
“Gareth? Isn’t that Welsh? Are your parents Welsh?
“No. Thank god”
“Uhh, Gareth my dad’s family comes from Wales.”
“Welsh? Sorry I thought you said Scottish.”
“My mum’s dad’s Scottish.”
“Right.” This was going well.
“Are we all buckled in then kids?”
I nodded, but Mr. Copple was looking at me oddly, his squinty blue pupils getting smaller and smaller until they almost disappeared. I didn’t know where to look.
“Is that…is that…toilet paper on your forehead?”
Oh sweet mother of God.
“Yes. It is.”
“Why on earth have you got toilet paper stuck to your forehead?”
I felt I was in the witness stand at a murder inquiry.
“I cut myself shaving,” I answered, hoping that Palm was deaf in one ear if not both.
“Do you mean to say you shave your eyebrows young man?”
Do you mean to say that you saw Mr. Jenkins threaten Mrs. Jones with a kitchen knife?
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“Right,” he said looking rather taken aback, “In my day a quick wash and a freshly ironed shirt was all that was required on a date.” He slipped the car into first gear and pulled out of the drive, muttering under his breath as though I was a mile away and not a metre, “Strange boy.” Needless to say I never saw Palm again.
I shaved my eyebrows at least once a week until one day at University, in my second year, I was sat on a bench opposite the girl who would eventually become the first-girl-I-ever-really-loved. We were drunk and talking about life, getting to know one another as you do when you meet someone who blows you away and makes you drop your defences. She asked me if I had any weird habits. Being drunk and starry-eyed I said that I shaved my eyebrows, expecting her to laugh. She didn’t. She just looked at me and smiled.
“You mean you’ve got a mono-brow? So what? I think they’re cute.”
And I’ve never shaved them since.