I used to be jealous of the girls who would get their eyebrows done in high school. Not because I didn’t like my eyebrows, or even knew what there was to like or dislike about a set of eyebrows. All I knew, and still know, is that they were a part of my face and, like with all parts of my face, my feelings towards them changes daily (love, disdain, but mostly indifference). I was jealous because I wanted to be part of the social experience. I technically could’ve gone with the girls to get my brows done on the Upper East Side in the 10th grade, but I instead chose to take my mother’s advice, which I should really do more often: never touch or let anyone touch your eyebrows. And I took that advice up until three days ago when I finally decided to leave that piece of maternal advice behind and do what I actually wanted to do, which is bleach my brows.
Despite a man on an app recently flirting with me by saying, "you have the most perfect eyebrows I’ve ever seen," I, impulsively, between a day of thrifting and a night at a tequila party celebrating the end of the US Open, bleached my eyebrows as "We Almost Broke Up Again Last Night" by Sabrina Carpenter played. When I say impulsively, I really mean this: I thought about it on and off for years, sometimes all in and, at other times, terrified of every last one of my brow hairs falling out, but finally decided to go through with it. This feels impulsive to me (a Capricorn). With fingers crossed and a box of the L'Oréal Féria Hyper Platinum Advanced Lightening System promising "crystal-clear platinum results" before me, I started combining ingredients (developer crème, bleaching powder, and hyper lightening crème) in what felt like a little science experiment. My friend, who was also bleaching their eyebrows in solidarity, was less nervous: they had done this before. They had bleached their eyebrows, shaved their eyebrows, and dyed their hair. I had never dyed anything before. Cutting off all of my chemically damaged hair in a big chop was intense enough for me.
I picked up my dog, held him up Simba-style, looked him in the eyes, and told him what his mom was about to do. And that he better still recognize me. Then we set up in front of the mirror in my bathroom, plastic gloves on and beauty supply store spoolie brushes in hand, with little pieces of plastic wrap laid out around the sink. I make my friend be the first to dip their spoolie in the bleach concoction and pass it through their brows. And then I went and kept applying until my brows were covered, before wrapping them in plastic wrap. I set a timer for eight minutes.
Eight minutes passed, and in that time I could see my dark brows lightening as I sat twiddling my thumbs trying not to freak out. I removed the Saran wrap, wiped my brows with a wet paper towel, and revealed a yellowy hue.
I remembered that the L'Oreal Féria Hyper Platinum Advanced Lightening System box included a purple conditioner to neutralize yellow and orange, so I slabbed that on in somewhat of a frenzy, both excited and terrified about my new appearance, and unsure about if I loved it, hated it, or felt indifferent. They looked exactly like I imagined they would but it was jarring nonetheless. All I could do was laugh because I didn't know how to feel and then, when I had laughed enough, these were my thoughts, in this exact order: My mom is going to kill me. But I'm a grown adult and it's my face. and Okay, I think I actually look cool. The only thing I can really compare it to is shaving all of my hair off, and the feeling I have now and had then is the same: I like the way that I look but really hope that other people feel the same way, even though that shouldn't be what it's about.
I decided to show off my newly-bleached brows to the world by attending a party celebrating the completion of the US Open. But upon arriving home, I was greeted with a scene that this bleach-beginner could never have predicted. Before leaving, I decided to keep the bottle of bleach for the sake of touchups and re-bleaching in the future. I stored it in my medicine cabinet and returned home to a foamy white substance pouring out and into the sink. This is maybe where I made my one mistake: I, obviously needing to dispose of the exploded bottle of bleach and not wanting to be wasteful, decided to dip my spoolie back in and take another pass through my brows, with no thought about the health of those delicate little hairs. Did I permanently damage my eyebrows? I have no idea. Did the second round of bleach make any difference at all? You tell me.
So, now my eyebrows are bleached, my dog still recognizes me and, most importantly, I don't completely hate them. I feel sort of liberated, like my new brows give me permission to experiment more with clothes, makeup, and hairstyles in ways that I've always wanted to but never felt like I could pull off. Now that my brows are bleached and, from some angles, I momentarily look eyebrow-less, it feels like anything goes. And that's a good, new feeling. So I think I'll keep them, at least for a little while. Sure, mirror glances are still a little startling, but I'll get used to it. And this is what I keep reminding myself: they're only eyebrows.
