Of a hirsute nature

Posted on September 2, 2006


I generally pay no attention to my eyebrows. I’ll apply copious eye-makeup and contact lenses and leave the house well-pleased, where I attract gasps from the populace. But now that I live with The Tweet, such negligence is no longer possible. She doesn’t remind me gently, either; I will wake up in the morning to her saying derisively, “Until when are you going to let your eyebrows grow all bushy? Aren’t you embarrassed? You could almost braid them.” And then I mutter that I don’t know any places, and she either mockingly suggests that I go look around (as if I am possessed of some sort of vehicle for touring Heliopolis, rather than just two rather well-used hooves), or falsely promises to take me to her salon. So finally I went the other day, to a place I used to go to when I was in university here in West El Balad.

As soon as I got in there, the woman took one look and yelled, “Ya Mohammad. Scissors! Scissors and a comb!” making me feel like an ice-age creature of some kind. I whisked the fur out of my eyes and sat down, hiding myself from accusing well-groomed eyes behind the woman’s bulk.

Er, I feel like I should point out that the rest of me isn’t unduly hairy. Just so you know.