I could have ignored the sunglasses on top of his head at 10 pm, his fade haircut, the Blackberry in his hand that he had one eye on, and his leg up on the chair, exposing his set like a matador. But the goddam eyebrows stopped me in my tracks. If he was gay, I could have pulled him aside like a sister, honey you've gone too far with the tweezing; I could have even ruffled them up a bit with my thumb. But he wasn't and I couldn't so I didn't.
You know, I don't exactly care for my tone either right now, I'm passing judgement, it's true. He's just a squirrel trying to get a nut. Who am I to knock him down, to criticize and act as though I do no wrong. I don't feel good about myself going after an easy target, but the thing is, not only did he give me and, let's be honest, every person in the room, the once over/up and down, he spent the whole time talking about how pathetic this actor guy was. And laughing about it.
Still, he could have been talking about Shakespeare or love and I wouldn't have heard a word of it. It was like that part in a movie where the car hits the brakes and there is loud screeching and then bang, the worst metal ripping sound you've ever heard in your life, then the hub-cab spirals to the ground and there is silence. And everything moves in slow motion from that point on. All I could think was Vincent Price's voice chanting eyebrows, eyebrows, EYEBROWS.
I saw my sister from the corner of my eye, excused myself and grabbed her arm like a life raft. "Can you tell I'm staring at his eyebrows?" I stage whispered, and then bore a lazer beam above her eyelids.
No, but you look insane, was what she said. I kept staring at her. It was hard to snap out of it. Then she said "Oh Dave?"
YES Dave.
Oh, yeah, well.
It is hard for me to accept this. It is hard for me to accept that I live in a town where it is more common for a guy to groom himself than it is for him to know how to change a tire.
AMAZING.
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