One’s monobrow is like a mole – you can either embrace it, try to cover it up or remove it. The only difference is moles have had their coming out, the monobrow however is still waiting for its Marilyn Monroe, its Cindy Crawford. Sure, it has its Frieda Kahlo, but she had a pretty rare sexy-spanish-artist card to play. Moles even have another name to differentiate them from the other excluded bodily oddities – all one needs do is spot your face with a marker and you have yourself a ‘beauty spot’. If one were to take an eyebrow liner and bridge the gap, I can’t see anyone scoring praise from society for having a ‘beauty smear’.
I am one of the lucky many to have inherited a monobrow from our monkey descendants.
Where a young girl starts growing breasts, a young man starts growing hair. Everywhere. Including the forehead. Some thicker than others, and luckily for me I had the follicle power of a young Marx brother.
Being young and ever so ignorant, I didn’t see it as the faux pas it was till mid way through high school, and then it was too late to do anything about. Once everyone knows you as monobrow boy, there is no salvation – if I shaved it off, they would know for lack of brow. So I kept flying my brow flag till I was free from
hell school and had the freedom to do with it what I wish.
The only problem was, I had become attached. I had named the puppy.
I considered keeping it, in my mind’s eye, it didn’t look that bad. I saw it as becoming. Tweezers in hand, I stood in front of the mirror like Frodo leaning over the volcano, some little voice in his head telling him, maybe not…
Luckily I had a decent enough amount of family and friends around me to constantly remind me it had to go. One time when visiting relatives, I made the mistake of falling asleep around my loved ones and my adorable aunt put some hair removal cream on my bridge, but a combination of the amount of booze she had and how funny she found the act let her to forget about it and I awoke some time later to a burning sensation on my head. Due to what I assumed was 12th degree burns, the hair stopped growing for a while, but eventually came back in full force and now requires irritating attention, like a child crying out once a week for its feeding.
I once heard a beer carrying bogan in the street say to his friend, “Dazza, real men don’t trim their monobrows”. I like to imagine there are a union of these brow heavy men who can sense it in each others eyes as they meet – a secret society bonded by brow. One day there will be an uprising. Unable to take it any more, the constant grooming needs outweighing any sense of sanity, the men revolt like sugar hungry kids in a grain shop. The society meets and, like the Witches in Roald Dahl’s story, they peel away the skin, freeing the gap between the brows, finally in the company of fellow outcasts. They shall declare “let them have their finely tweezed brows! No longer shall we be restrained by their constricting ways, let the hair grow! We are promoting unity between brows which is obviously a metaphor for society! We are HUMAN! We are MEN!”
Then they would get drunk, BBQ some meat, forget about the uprising and pass out under the table.
Maybe it’s a boy thing, but a part of me misses my old friend, like an interesting looking toenail you have to cut off because, gross.
Yeah, real men may not trim their monobrows; real men probably wax or pluck. Real men have the balls to say “this is not becoming” and do something about it. You, beer carrying bogan who still uses farting as a courting gesture are not, in fact, a real man. You are an idiot. But who knows, this beer carrying bogan may be the shining star we need. Our Marilyn, our Cindy.