“They look like caterpillars.”
The young man who was, I thought, supposed to be giving me a haircut was looking at my face in horror.
We were in my daughter’s London flat and he’d been booked to do her hair. Since she was still in hospital, I thought I could do with a cut and maybe a bit of color. But I was sitting at her table, so there was no mirror that could verify the presence of even a single member of the Lepidoptera family, let alone multiples.
I’d just started to get that creepy-crawly feeling—you know, the one you get when you see a spider and then can’t find it again—when he touched my eyebrow. “Do not worry. I will fix. It will be fast.”
It was not fast. In fact, it took forever while he happily shaped and plucked and even colored. I tried to explain that I’m retired. I don’t wear makeup any more, I try to comb my hair at least every other day (whether it needs it or not), and I have never, ever, not even once, colored my eyebrows.
I have now colored my eyebrows. And my hair.
“But…your hair never had any gray.” The Hub was confused. “Why did it need to be colored?”
And that’s why I’m still married to him.