Plucking eyebrowsPosted: August 28, 2010
Blinded by the florescent light
skin bleach,hair color
wrinckles smoothed,old age
Stench of re-creation
tickles the nostrils,drills into my brain.
A familiar face peers down from my reveries,smiles
my beautician.She’s nice.I like her.
“Not too thin” I tell her,
She smiles and nods.She knows,I know that she knows
But I tell her anyway.
Sneaking a side way glance,her work kit opened up
tweezers,scissors,unidentified metal objects
My beautician,she’s precise,I like her.
I close my eyes.all set for operation
They are God and we are the mortals
victimes of beauty and its painful endevours.
I imagine her,brows furrowed up with concentration
mental calculations of the arch,the width
the exact lenth of my eyebrows.She sets to work
tugs and pulls
at my innocent little eye brows that had decided to go wild.
I grit my teeth
determined not to scream,not to run and hide
from the armed beautician,hunting me down
The crime?Overgrown eyebrows!
unimaginable!I should be ashamed!
I silently bid adieu and imagine
my dear departing eye brows wailing,refusing to be pulled out
from the bed of skin where they were born
ever so lovingly
into a frenzied wilderness.
I never understood
why I always feel sad,at each plucking
each tugging of skin,each pull
a diminition of my overgrown existence.
The tugging stops,I cannot feel my eye brows anymore
she hands me a mirror,oh my eyebrows,they are there!
two perfects archs.My beautician
she’s an artist,I like her very much.
“Perfect” I say,she smiles
bathed in that blinding florescent light
sneers down at me,mocking