So this one time, once upon a time, two years ago, after a really rowdy night at Cirque de Soleil (rowdy, I tell you!) with three of my favorites, things were decidedly fuzzy. We had watched some midgets bouncing on people’s heads, we had taken a water taxi across the East River, we had demolished Buck Hunter and perhaps a few six-packs of Bud Light at the Black Bear Lodge. We all finally settled back at MDD’s to continue the party. I was trying to be cool and light my cigarette over the burner on his designer oven when things got hot. Not hot in a good way; HOT HOT in the way that the tops of my eyebrows were singed into ash and suddenly I had a widow’s peak where there was none before.
I have a lot of hair and it has accidentally been set on fire three times, but never have I ever: burnt my preshesita eyebrows. The unfortunate byproduct of this incident is not whether the hair grew back — it did after a month of chola brows — it’s how it grew back. The permanent problem I now suffer is a misdirected part. The hairs at the center of my forehead (down in front!), instead of behaving, do their own thing. They’re rebels. They go against the grain. They suffered trauma and were never right again. They do an obscene number of things that are fun to describe but impossible to style. I have tried everything to get them to grow properly; I have cajoled them with hair oils, I have tugged at them, imploring them to go back to their seats. My PTSD hairs are an endless source of (mild) frustration. Chris has suggested massage at the root to try to push the follicles into the correct position. I am considering plucking them violently in the direction I want them to go and seeing how they are reincarnated. Can anyone help? Oh, woe is me with my twelve hairs out of place. The End.
