Well this is embarrassing...

Every since I can remember,

I've hated my eyebrows.

And when I say "hate", I don't mean the I-hate-this-millimeter-of-cellulite-on-my-never-even-visible-upper-thigh hate,

I mean the

I-literally-feel-like-a-man-on-a-daily-basis-and-am-too-scared-to-talk-to-boys-because-I-think-they-will-compare-me-to-Oscar-the-Grouch-and-mistake-me-for-a-Neanderthal

hate that has deterred me from social interactions of all sorts.

If you think this is melodramatic,

it is.

But I am what I am - and what I am (or was...we're getting there...) is a sorrily self conscious youngster with debilitating insecurities about her femininity.

For some reason, as a kid, I got it into my head that plucking my eyebrows would violate the ultimate parental taboo.

I'm not certain what initiated this little rule, but I do know that the day I broke it, I suffered a break down almost as embarrassing as the one to which I succumbed after mistakenly uttering the phrase "aw, man", which my confused 6-year-old self had mistaken for a forbidden swear word.

((My mom calls this Catholic guilt.

I call it OCD)).

Anyhow, after an hour car ride during which I attempted an innumerable quantity of what I'm sure would now be amusingly unnatural-looking poses aimed solely at shielding my forehead from my mother's purview, she finally commented on what were then (thanks to the talent of a super mature 12-year-old BFF and her apparently bourgeoning makeup artist skills) one inch lines placed a full finger's width too high on my brow and arched in a perpetually perky state of surprise.

I lost it.

Bawling, I admitted to her what I'd done. That I'd marred my appearance - that it wasn't even my idea - that I'd never do it again - that this was the worst decision of my life and that I was so, so, so sorry.

She was pretty unphased.

In fact, I don't think it would be going too far to say 

that she didn't care.

At all.

I think she might have off-handedly remarked that, next time, I might want to leave them a tiny-bit thicker.

And that was it.

Needless to say, I didn't touch my eyebrows for years.

And when I finally did, the alterations were too minimal to be really necessary at all.

Nowadays, they're much the same. The bushman patches you see here are largely untamed - save for the occasional frantic attempt at upkeep prompted by a particularily florescent Gap changing room.

When it starts to be more work to be someone else than to be yourself, 

I guess I just figure that it's not worth the effort. 

I have a hard enough time nailing down my own aesthetic without constantly worrying about that which is stipulated by the 'norm'. 
(and unfortunately, no superhumanly model with bushy brows has yet succeeded in convinced me that they're truly socially acceptable for a regular girl)

So here's me being awkward and embarrassed, 

and revealing how the makeup (dark brows, red lip) and hair (up and away from face) at last week's show brought forth my biggest insecurities. 

I'm attempting to kick them in the butt. 

Any majorly awkward things to share?
Please, if you have time, share in this personal-growth experience with me.