When I was a young teen I remember listening to a particularly irritating story being told by my Italian-american grandmother in her Chevrolet Caprice. "I used to have eyebrows just like you when I was young," she warbled. "They grew right to the middle. So I plucked them."
I remember hating her right then and there, not only for bringing up such an embarrassing subject for me, but also for being genetically responsible for the trait that got me harassed at school.1 I fought my nausea and feigned interest: "So what happened?"
"It just stopped growing back as I got older," she squinted back at me, through the rear view mirror.
1 I had always wondered why I had a unibrow while nobody else in my family did. It turns out they were all just assiduous pluckers.
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