A Little Talked About Sign of Aging

Here’s the thing. Most of my features come from my Romanian roots. I’ve always liked having dark hair and blue eyes. I am most psyched that my “gray” hair is silver, some people will even pay for that! After all, Dracula was Romanian and by many accounts was a particularly handsome man-thing.

Romanians are also a very hairy people. My beloved Grandpa not only had hair growing out of his ears, but in his later years even his lobes looked like small woodland creatures. My stunningly gorgeous mother had a quite the collection of bleaches, waxes and other tortuous means of ripping hair out of unwanted locations. Luckily, I have a dash of the less hirsute Western European DNA in the mix, so I don’t look like Cousin Itt. Yet.

Armed and aware of my Romanian hairy-heritage, I remain on steady look out for the inevitable mustache, the gratuitous nose whisker, the stray hairy mole. I’ve been beating back a unibrow since puberty. I am immune to the pain of tweezers.

Nothing prepared me for what I found in the mirror this morning.

I HAVE AN EYEBROW ON MY EYELID! And it’s a honker.

Let me clarify a bit: My newest brow tress is situated on the lid that covers my eye when I blink. This position gives the little monster the undue advantage of not being there when I look in the mirror. Browbeating me, as it were.

Enabling me to keep up my persistent plucking practice -- and adding insult to injury -- I’ve been forced to employ maggies to be able to see as I fervently labor. Isn’t that just what we all long for, magnified follicles?

I’ve deduced the ten foot long eyebrow hair achieved its great length by hiding under the rim of my cheaters. Knowing the existence of the strong-willed stray gives me no advantage. The road to plucking it, however, was hard won.

In order to get close enough to the bathroom mirror, I donned my cheaters and hoisted one knee up on the vanity for hands-free support while leaning in at a vertigo inducing angle. With one eye closed, clutching tweezers in my right hand, I used my left forefinger to gingerly reach behind the lens of my glasses (so not to leave a view obstructing smudge), elevating my upper lid high enough to see the offending hair. Unfortunately, this feat prevented any light from coming in overhead -- seriously impeding my efforts. The thought of pinching even a teeny part of my eyelid with the tweezers while yanking promptly aborted the mission.

Three more eye-wateringly unsuccessful attempts proved to me that the obstinate sucker is not coming out. I am destined to go through the rest of my life with a marmot covering my eye. Maybe I should just treat it as a pet and name it.

Problem is, the only moniker I can come up with is not to be repeated in mixed company.

Veronica, GypsyNester.com