One of the hardest things I still do is draw my eyebrows. This takes most of my getting-ready time and slows dressing-up considerably. It’s hard enough to draw one, but draw two, identically!
The case of a well-known glamorous matron, 10 years before my mother’s era, pops into mind. With her dimming eyesight and now heavy hand holding a not-easy-to-erase kohl pencil, she would have left home and made a frightful vision of herself if not caught in time by a watchful daughter.
I had never bothered with my eyebrows until a few years ago when I noticed their lackluster appearance. Without my eyeglasses, they’re hardly even there anymore. Sorely missed, they’re begging to be retouched.
Eyebrows, I’ve come to realize, express our real emotions; they’re always candid, unlike the eyes or the mouth. They beat any strategy of disguise. Alas, a blur now, they’re no longer reliable for affirmations of honesty.
With light brushstrokes, taking care not to overdo it, I draw them definitively. My problem is I was never good with my hands, never could embroider or draw pictures. Wearing bifocals makes things even harder; the frames get in the way. Without glasses, I don’t see what I’m doing at all.
This eyebrow issue has to be a common one among senior women. I hadn’t noticed until recently that many of my friends had already solved theirs by tattooing. No wonder their eyebrows still look perfect after aqua exercise or upon emerging from sleep, if you catch them.
They’ve given me the names of some of the best guys in the business, and they happen to be in my neighborhood—Greenbelt—and I’ve seen their work on friends, who all look the better for it. The job costs an eye, but retouches done within the year are free.
Aha, it’s not forever!
And then of course, there’s the pain. I happen to be the precise type for whom they invented anesthesia. Those multiple pricks can’t be all that painless!
But to cite a few testimonies from my fellow aqua-belles. Nida claims she even fell asleep while she was being done. Baby confirms it: Nothing to it. A coward like me, Linda says she got by under anesthesia. But all who have owned up seem pleased, and can’t understand why I’m having second thoughts so late in the day. Someone says the procedure is even better now, the results “more natural-looking,” feathery. In fact, it’s not called tattooing anymore but micro-blading. The word “blade” just made things even more terrifying for me.
But what if the first time doesn’t do it for me? Well, maybe, to preclude an unsuitable job, I should practice with my pencil until I get the right eyebrows for me as a model for tattooing. Or I could dig up old pictures of mine. Surely, I will need to show a picture of Frida Kahlo for an exact idea of at least how it should not be!
Having to take that sort of irreversible step is a huge deterrent in itself. What if I’m allergic to the dye and my brows swell? What if I lose what little hair I have left? Anyway, it’s about now or never—better before my 80th. As it is, I take too long to recover even from a common cold. And recovering yet from a bad eyebrow job!
The biggest opposition might actually come from my husband, who is against tampering with things natural and familiar—no fusion cooking, please. Dare I push my luck when he hardly seems to notice my baldish brows or any other gradual ravages of time on me?
He may not be so welcoming of two lush, well-contoured and darkened eyebrows appearing overnight, looking out of sync with the rest of my naturally aged face he has gotten used to.
Vergel has taught me something we’ve both put to good use in our long married life: Reverse the situation. In which case, he gets, not necessarily an eyebrow job, but transplants where hair is gone and cutting and stretching where creases have appeared.
As luck would have it, I get a chance to ask cousin Chito Antonio, my all-round favorite home, beauty, wardrobe and culinary expert and critic all in one. Chito likes to tell it as it is. And as usual, his answer is firm: “No, please. I’ll give you a pencil brush that will do the job. Ako na ang bahala.” I know that, with him, I’m in good hands.
