Sidetrack #1 got me off to wonder why reporters are always portrayed as rumpled? Come to think of it, writers are often portrayed as disheveled – what is it about this stereotype about writing causing a disinterest in your appea…. And this was the moment I realized that I was writing this in a pair of yoga pants with a hole or two and a big, comfy top (the kind of comfy that means not necessarily attractive). No make-up and I hadn’t brushed my hair after it dried from the shower. A nevermind almost made it on to the page, after which I’d moved briskly onto movies, but something else happened. I.e., sidetrack #2.
But first - sidetrack #1b? - more on the no makeup. I may have mentioned before that I'm rather fair (diplomatic version of Scandinavian colourlessness), which is why for years, I went nowhere without a bit of eyeliner and mascara to avoid the "death warmed over" look. Then came a long time where it hurt too much to bother applying the war paint and once I hopped back into an upswing, I somehow never got around to picking up a mascara wand. I did buy a new one a while ago - the old one having years ago been reduced to a dried-up bristly mess - but it remains pristine and destined to become a dried-up bristly mess in my makeup bag that hasn't been opened in a really long time. Which means I don't get out a hand mirror and look closely at my face, because if I'm not putting on makeup, the bathroom mirror works perfectly fine to check general appearance, right? Combine this with the kind of limited mobility of my shoulders that mean I can't comfortably reach things on my face that are much higher than my eyes and the next thing sort of makes sense, yet….
So, the other day, I touched my left eyebrow. You wouldn't think that this would be blogworthy, but it's what happened when I touched my left eyebrow that becomes the topic today (and we shall not discuss how long it took to get there. Instead, let's consider it blog foreplay). Anyway, back to my eyebrow. Which felt sort of weird. As if the hairs weren’t lying against the skin, so I moved to the hallway mirror, leaned forward and saw this
I have no idea how this happened. Apparently, half the hair in my - rather obviously unplucked - left eyebrow (seriously, not a mile wide as the macro shot would seem to indicate) ) is now perpendicular to my face. Not decorously tamed, not civilized, more sort of standing up straight as if electrocuted and about the furthest thing from elegant that you can get. And all of a sudden, I felt like Kafka. Except less repellent. And less animal-like. So perhaps not like Kafka at all. But what I want to know is this…
When did I become an 87-year-old man???
(and no, I don't know wtf is going on with the font again)