Plucking Hell.

Is it just me that finds the photo posted yesterday - a fish shop with a wet floor - very funny?

Probably.

So ......... when was the last time we talked about plucking eyebrows?

Let’s look……

Blimey, never!

We spoke about a lot of things but somehow we just seemed to have missed the subject all together, so let’s put things straight.

Which, when it comes to my own (eyebrows) is practically impossible.

Being somewhat bushy that they are.

For the first half of my life I didn’t really think about them – they were there, doing their thing and like my dad’s they were a jungle unto themselves.

Then one day I got picked at audition to juggle a pot of paint, a brush, a padlock, a hard hat and a something-i-don’t-remember for an advert wherein the Director deemed that my eyebrows needed a good pluck.

So plucked they were.

And plucked they have continued to be.

I found myself thinking about the process again just the other day.

I was a guest at Charlotte’s birthday surprise late afternoon breakfast thingy and I had a chance to study a few 17 year old female eyebrows.

Wow!

They were good!

Talk about Audrey Hepburn!

So this morning I had a look at mine.

Wow!

Talk about Worzle Gummidge.

My technique over the last 20 or so years has been to look in the mirror in the morning and if one, or two, are sticking up, or down and out of line – plucked they get.

I realised this morning that sleeping as I often do with my head crumpled into the pillow on one side, the right eyebrow has been constantly rumpled and this is probably the reason I now have a thatch over the left eye and a moth eaten carpet over the other.

I must strive harder for plucking balance!