“I have two questions: one, what perfume are you wearing and two, who does your eyebrows?”
I wasn’t wearing perfume and told her so, but do use a cocoa butter gel body oil that I love.
Second, about the eyebrows . . .
As a kid I suffered greatly, my eyebrows making me resemble Bert of Bert and Ernie fame, more than any other Muppet.
He meant well, I’m sure, but my dad would humiliatingly nudge me into performing my Groucho Marx routine, something he taught me at an early age (complete with cigar wagging!). It wasn’t till I was older that I thought, oh wonderful; I look like Groucho Marx. What little princess doesn’t want to look like Groucho Marx?
So since a rather tender age, I’ve been absolutely obsessed with perfectly maintained eyebrows and, at the age of 40, to be complimented about them gave me great joy. (The answer is my hairdresser waxes them and I obsessively, compulsively keep them as neat as possible until I see her again.)
Women, older than I, and who probably never spent tearful hours in the bathroom mirror trying to tame the arches over their eyes, tell me I should be glad; that they struggle to pencil in brows that used to exist. I suspect I’ll never have that issue, but if I ever do, I’ll just use that pic of Groucho to remember what used to be.