I've inherited many of my mother's physical characteristics: narrow shoulders, wide hips, freckly skin... and her eyebrows. I think shaping my CroMagnon-man eyebrows was the only feminine grooming pointer my Mother ever taught me.
Whenever I see Mom I give her the once over - I check her out and really look at her. I look for signs of bathing, or lack of bathing. I look for new spots or bruises. I check her nails. I look to see if her glasses need to be washed. I check her out because I know she doesn't. In her boredom or anxiety she will sometimes pick at a piece of skin until it's bleeding. Every so often she'll let me get a peek at her torso if I ask to see her stitches.
Yesterday when I was visiting, during our quite time together in her room, we were talking about her friend JT. Mom and JT went out for lunch and a scenic ride this week. Mom is so blessed to have JT for a friend.
So we're chatting and I'm giving Mom a look over. Something about her face was different. Something just didn't look right. I lean in real close and look.
"Mom, what happened to your eyebrows?"
"There's nothing wrong with my eyebrows."
"Mom, where are your eyebrows?"
"Oh I plucked out all the white ones."
"Oh...ok..." I try not to make any more stupid remarks. Mom has plucked out almost all her eyebrows. She's got day-old stubble where her eyebrows use to be.
You've gotta laugh or you're gonna cry.