Eyebrow ASBO

Fifteen was when things started to go wrong. I had started shaving a few months before. That was when the hirsute horrors first shook their hairy hands across the bridge of my nose.

My eyebrows were beyond unruly. They’d steal beer from the fridge. They’d play music loud late into the night. My parents tutted and sighed. The neighbours complained.

Once, on a date, a first date, a formative date, I popped to the gents between courses. Looking in the mirror I realised my left eyebrow had gone. When had it escaped, how long had my guest been sat staring at the freak with one eyebrow? What could I tell her, that this boy didn’t even have the strength of character to keep his facial hair in check?