i took one look at the image in my brightly lit bathroom mirror, and reeled back in horror - my eyebrows rivalled lalu prasad's! worse, blind in the dim light of my friends' bedroom and bathroom mirrors, i had traipsed through two countries blissfully oblivious to this scrub jungle on my face.
grabbing a pair of tweezers, i set about attacking the offending bristle, while my daughter bounced on the bed, watching.
'isn't that painful ma?' she asked, commenting on the bumps and the blotches of angry red skin the vigorous plucking left behind.
'mmm...yes chellam... it is.' i replied absently, trying not to pinch skin.
'so why do you put yourself through it?'
aarrgghhh... there she went again! why did she persist in asking silly questions with obvious answers?
i flashed one quick fiery look at her from the corner of my eye, a look i hoped spoke the volumes i couldn't trust my words to convey kindly enough.
totally unfazed... see, this is yet another thing about her that drives me crazy, i could go ballistic and she wouldn't even notice... she continued,
'well, her bushy eyebrows and big mustache never stopped you or anybody else from saying frida kahlo was brilliant, and you always say you admire the way she remained a 'natural' woman, so how come you have different standards for yourself, ma?'
i was lost for words. completely.
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