Recently, a most horrifying discovery was foisted upon me: my eyebrows contain more gray in them than they do brown.
Yikes! how does that happens, being I’m not yet old?
After all, at 64 I’m just entering the second third of my life.
Apparently, others – such as my wife – have known of this solemn condition for quite some time and have kept it from me; obviously not wanting to burst my bubble by saving me from the knowledge that Father Time has been schlepping across my face for years.
“Honey,” I said while examining closely in the bathroom mirror the wiry, frizzy, randomly-aimed, string-like gray filaments that inhabit my lower forehead, “Did you notice that my eyebrows have turned gray?”
“Yes,” said she, in the same manner that one would respond to the question, “Did you notice that I have a nose on my face?”
“You’re just realizing it now?” she asked.
Sheepishly – and somewhat defensively – I responded, “Uh, yeah. I don’t pay too much attention to my eyebrows. Besides,” I added, seeking a rationale, “I wear glasses; the frames hide them.”
Trying to be empathic (but failing, I might add), she continued, “Your hair has been gray for twenty years. What makes you think you’d keep those Groucho Marx caterpillar-like things forever? You’re getting older; things change.”
She paused. “By the way, how come you’re just noticing them now?”
“My play,” I answered, as if that would clarify everything.
“Your play?” she echoed, perplexed.
“Yes, I had to wear make-up when on stage. I don’t normally do that. Staring that closely at my face, I noticed my eyebrows.”
“Oh,” she said. “Welcome to what women deal with,” and left the bathroom, leaving me alone to examine my facial terrain. Not willing to tweeze them, I did opt to trim them. Despite my years, I absolutely refuse to look like Andy Rooney used to; a bridge too far.
