I’m not a cat person, but I enjoy rubbing their tiny little furry noses with my index finger. If they’re not little jerk cats and will sit still and accept forced-love cuddle time, I can do it for hours.
In fact, my ideal afternoon would be sitting on a billowy, fresh white bed with a soft, clean Siamese kitten, just stroking its teeny nose with my right pointer finger. Gordon Ramsay would be on TV, and my phone would be inundated with little orange hearts as all of my Instagram friends admire the Brannan’d little vignette that I posed half an hour earlier of the cat’s teeny nose and my manicured finger with a perfect crescent cuticle. It’d have, like, 97 likes by then. The ideal afternoon indeed.
Of course, if you’re a conscious human being, you’ve probably come realize that cats are moody little twerps that chew through your phone chords and piss on your pillows.
Don’t even think about declawing them, because that would make you, like, a kitten poacher. Just grin and bear it as they prick your thighs, making pulls through your brand new Acne skinnies, as if telling you, “Oh this surface is large, wide, and fluffy enough for me to make a bed of!”
And when you tell them to get the hell away from you, they always turn their stupid little heads slowly to the right, their creepy, sinister dragon pupils side-eyeing you, just oozing with malice. Then they prissily saunter off, their tails caressing the air around their pouty anuses, because they really just don’t care. They’re probably on their way to your closet where they’ll urinate on that floor-length something-or-other that you rarely wear, but when you do, you’ll notice about half an hour later that you smell of musty old cat piss.
So, no, I’m not a “cat person.” That doesn’t, by default, make me a “dog person,” by the way. I’m a “me person,” capable of caring for myself and myself alone on a daily basis.
I get just as much satisfaction stroking that fictional ideal-day kitten’s nose as I do petting my own delicate unibrow. It takes commitment, but I highly recommend growing some. I’ve been avoiding tweezers since last May, and my brows have finally reached their fullest, lushest potential.
It’s like having two adorable, smushy little caterpillars always hanging out on my forehead. And they’re seriously the most low-maintenance pets a selfish jerk like myself could ever wish for. I don’t need to feed them or make sure they’re well exercised. They are completely silent and never bite or piss on anything. For real, grow a pair!
And don’t offend my uni by referring to them as “it.” They’re not a “thing,” they’re conjoined twins, each with their own thoughts and feelings. The one on the right, Cassandra, is way moody, always sitting a little higher and arched, like, “SAY SOMETHING, BITCH.”
If it were up to me, I’d let them flourish forever in their natural state, curly and wiry and reminiscent of a virile carpenter’s pubic hair. But like most other things I say or do, they seem to offend almost everyone around me.
I’ve been randomly approached on five different occasions by aestheticians offering me their card. They’d “just love to get my hands on your brows!” Which is offensive, by the way. I realize that I have eyebrows and that waxing exists, and that I’d look mildly more attractive from a boring standpoint if I groomed them more often.
You’re not She’s-All-Thating me.
I’ll admit, some mornings, they can get a bit disheveled. I need to, but don’t wear glasses, so I rarely notice when I look like a feral child, which is always. (Also, feral children aren’t nerds with glasses, they’re badasses like Mogli.) On occasion, I’ll need to appear presentable: weddings, trips to see my boyfriend, when Jane Pratt gives me a job, etc. These are the life moments when I should trim my eyebrows.
Notice I said “trim,” not “pluck.” If you want to wake up to texts like these, give your tweezers a stiff middle finger and leave them at the back corner of your bathroom counter to wonder what they did wrong.
Giving your brows a quick trim is easy; you’ll need an eyebrow brush and small, sharp scissors. Or, I mean, just use whatever’s closest. You’ll be giving me way too much credit if you think I use fancy or even appropriate beauty tools when it comes to my personal grooming. Or maybe not enough credit, because I’ve definitely trimmed my brows using a hair comb and sewing shears before, which is really quite impressive.
Case in point...
**DISCLAIMER** Uh, that's PURPLE lipstick I'm wearing. Not slutty-'80s-babysitter pink.
Do you have pube-y brows? Do you trim? Shave? Pluck? PUT DOWN THE TWEEZERS and click clack me a freakin' answer.