A not so long time ago, in the Milky Way galaxy, I once had some pretty far, far away thoughts. Apologies to all Star Wars aficionados out there for my clumsy corruption of the opening sequence, but in keeping with one of the principal characters, I used to look like Chewbacca: hair fucking everywhere.
My thought pattern in the halcyon days of youth never engaged with the horror of hair loss. I had bundles of the stuff ─ on my bonce, my back, and even up my bum. I was a veritable human rain forest of hair.
But getting older can have its downsides, and for me the loss of the hair on my head signalled a new internal dialogue, continuing to correlate what I felt I should look like with the actual reality. All remaining hair stayed steadfastly resilient; how I would gladly have traded some from my arse cheeks, under my armpits, and on my hands, to keep my cranium covered! Believe me, aging takes no prisoners ─ it can be fucking brutal.
I’ve written about my baldness previously, and I’m happy to report that I’ve never looked back in anger at my decision to shave the lot off. Bald is ─ in my case ─ beautiful!
Everything was just dandy on the advancing age front until a small area of remaining hair went feral. In the grand scheme of things, a few centimetres of the stuff shouldn’t cause such a seismic shock, but it occupies a prominent position on my face: my personal shop window; my invitation to treat yourself to an admiring glance in my general direction. My eyebrows began to act independently. They were autonomous. They had joined the rebel alliance. They turned into a speckled grey and brown abomination and sprouted in all directions like a wayward garden of triffids.
I fought the rebellion with my Darth Vader light sabre (aka my Remington nasal hair trimmer), but this intrusion only made things worse ─ chunks of eyebrow chopped away, creating a look one would only usually see at a circus on the face of a clown. For the more stubborn fuckers I tried the ultimate weapon of choice: my wet shaver. Suffice to say, this selection always ended in tears. So, what were the options?
Making some not so discrete enquiries, a solution seemed at hand: threading. In a nutshell, the talented and tenacious threader would do what it said on the tin and shape my errant eyebrows with a skilful twist of the yarn, tugging the tiny hairs away, roots and all.
Of course, this action caused some discomfort: the male equivalent of childbirth. Fuck it hurt! And even though the brows were temporarily tamed, the look of a 1970s awful weathered brown leather sofa remained. This was not the Empire fighting back.
I needed backup. A trusted ally. I was prepared to form an alliance with someone I had never before considered forming a joint venture with ─ a beautician.
My very masculine view of life is understandably shaped by being born in Nottingham, the arse end of the East Midlands, where mining was once the dominant vocation, together with all my years as a cop. My cultural heritage wasn’t equipped to grapple with the notion of such a collaboration.
But I was at war, and when needs must, drastic countermeasures must be considered. If some asbestos gargling guy, dripping in testosterone, thought I was a fairy, they could deal with that. I am a proud problem solver!
And so it came to pass that I met Lorraine. Shaping, styling, and returning my eyebrow colour to what would once have matched my thatch; the transformation was compete. Granted, I thought the first attempt made me look like Felonius Gru from Despicable Me, but with a lighter shade of brown I achieved my ultimate makeover, with some solid looking eyebrows!
Lorraine is now my official passe-partout; my sherpa on my continued climb from the chaos of creeping eyebrows ─ and if I have abandoned my roots of raw manhood who cares? I’m officially back in the game and looking cute!
© Ian Kirke 2023 / @ianjkirke