I was about eight years old, which would make my cousin Kate around fourteen. Maybe we were a little older, a little younger.
We were in the driveway of my grandmother's old house, talking while I played with something with wheels from the garage...
This was pretty rare I suppose. I was a shy little kid, and Kate was probably in the leave-me-the-fuck-alone portion of adolescence.
"You have nice eyebrows," she said.
One lifted in slight confusion. "Thanks," I mumbled. I was always mumbling.
"Really. Don't pluck them."
I wondered to myself why I would ever want to.
"Well, maybe in high school a little. They're nice." Then one or the other of us found something better to do.
A few years later is when I started having mild (self-proclaimed anyway) trichotillomania. Compulsive hair pulling. Photos of me from middle school show eyebrows thrown out of whack, drawn away from the bridge of my nose by anxiety's fingernails. I've toned it down quite a bit since then. Periodically I look in the mirror and realize, I need a break.
In the next few years, I will defeat this, don't worry. I will hide the damn tweezers.
Posted by samantha at March 18, 2004 10:54 PM