I have bushy black eyebrows. I don't know what the evolutionary advantage may have been, but I've seen lots of Slavic people with the same trait. My mother's family was from Slovakia, and my great grandmother, Antonia Kubinek, was born there in the 19th century. To our knowledge, there are no pictures of the Kubineks available. But somehow I feel that she had the same bushy black eyebrows. They must have come from somewhere, and I think it's the Carpathian Mountains.
However, my hairstylist, Mr. "J", a rather debonair, accomplished young man, does not like bushy eyebrows. He thinks they are simply disgusting. Over the last six months or so, we have had a friendly oral slappy-party over whether they should be trimmed. I like them, and he doesn't. When I came in in May, I told him I didn't want them trimmed. But he insisted ! After all, his place of business is a Paul Mitchell Salon in Scottsdale. So I relented. But then I hatched a plot. A plot !
When I saw Mr. "J." for my June appointment, I was carrying on my person a picture of a person with the most prominent black eyebrows in the world, the late Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party, Leonid Brezhnev. I secreted it in my pocket, and when my hairstylist was about ready to seize my eyebrows, I whipped Comrade Brezhnev's picture out of a fold between a Kardashians photo essay in People magazine, and said "This is a real eyebrow problem. Do you know who he is?"
Mr. "J" retorted "I don't know, and I don't want to know !"
"Well, he was Leonid Brezhnev, General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, until his death in 1982."
"So what?" Mr. "J" snapped.
Didn't my hairstylist know anything about the "Evil Empire," the Stalinist purges and forced agrarian collectivization that lead to tens of millions of deaths? Or even the Russian Revolution of 1917 that deposed and literally disposed of the Romanovs for good?
I guess not. He trimmed my eyebrows anyway, almost in a panic, and instructed me: "You're taking this picture home with you !"
"Yes, dear."
So when Mr. "J" had done his fine job, and I was at the reception desk, ready to pay my bill, I showed Brezhnev's picture to the young (20s) staff, and asked them,"Who is this man?"
Every one of them said "I don't know" and looked at me with a perplexed gaze.
But then a more mature lady with a great new 3-figure 'do approached the desk. Rudely, I said to her "Madam, you appear old enough to know this man. What's his name?" She snapped back: "He's just some Mexican!"
Ouch. "Just some Mexican."
Poor, poor, forgotten Brezhnev.
However, my hairstylist, Mr. "J", a rather debonair, accomplished young man, does not like bushy eyebrows. He thinks they are simply disgusting. Over the last six months or so, we have had a friendly oral slappy-party over whether they should be trimmed. I like them, and he doesn't. When I came in in May, I told him I didn't want them trimmed. But he insisted ! After all, his place of business is a Paul Mitchell Salon in Scottsdale. So I relented. But then I hatched a plot. A plot !
When I saw Mr. "J." for my June appointment, I was carrying on my person a picture of a person with the most prominent black eyebrows in the world, the late Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party, Leonid Brezhnev. I secreted it in my pocket, and when my hairstylist was about ready to seize my eyebrows, I whipped Comrade Brezhnev's picture out of a fold between a Kardashians photo essay in People magazine, and said "This is a real eyebrow problem. Do you know who he is?"
Mr. "J" retorted "I don't know, and I don't want to know !"
"Well, he was Leonid Brezhnev, General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, until his death in 1982."
"So what?" Mr. "J" snapped.
Didn't my hairstylist know anything about the "Evil Empire," the Stalinist purges and forced agrarian collectivization that lead to tens of millions of deaths? Or even the Russian Revolution of 1917 that deposed and literally disposed of the Romanovs for good?
I guess not. He trimmed my eyebrows anyway, almost in a panic, and instructed me: "You're taking this picture home with you !"
"Yes, dear."
So when Mr. "J" had done his fine job, and I was at the reception desk, ready to pay my bill, I showed Brezhnev's picture to the young (20s) staff, and asked them,"Who is this man?"
Every one of them said "I don't know" and looked at me with a perplexed gaze.
But then a more mature lady with a great new 3-figure 'do approached the desk. Rudely, I said to her "Madam, you appear old enough to know this man. What's his name?" She snapped back: "He's just some Mexican!"
Ouch. "Just some Mexican."
Poor, poor, forgotten Brezhnev.
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