Eyebrow Comb-overs

My Hubs has a couple of eyebrow hairs which are maybe an inch and a half long. I don't know about anybody else, but that bugs me. He holds onto those suckers and slicks them down in order, apparently, to boost the amount of eye coverage he has.

In my opinion, he's like these old guys who try to slick the three or four hairs they've still got over their shiny bald pates in hopes of still appearing to be blithe and young. The counsellor at my old high school used to comb his from the back to the front. Whenever he was scurrying down the hall, the sparse cap of cultivated hairs whipped back like the pop top on a water bottle. One time I nearly laughed so hard I fell into my locker.

So I go after the offending eyebrow ropes with a scissors hoping he'll finally relent, but he doesn't. There is no scenario where he feels the need to have a well-trimmed face, apparently. Drives me nuts. I wonder if he'd even trim a uni-brow or one of those sets of raccoon-shaped brows that blot out the light of the sun.

I got to thinking about this today. Are there things I'm holding onto, which, like the Hubs' foot-long eyebrow hairs, could be holding me like a bug caught in amber; images of myself as a person; items long out of use I should have tossed onto the mound eons ago?

I figured that going on sweater purges, bailing on all the half-done hopeless projects, wiping out the civilization of plastic bags festering in my cupboard, and tossing out all my ancient I'm-holding-onto-these-clothes-for-when-I-lose-sixty-pounds-of-hideous-fat clothes would do the trick until I can examine the more difficult, closer-held personal images which should be jettisoned. It kind of feels like cutting off the parachute right before you jump out of the plane.

Maybe I should lay off the stupid eyebrow festoons and concentrate on a thousand tons of my own useless baggage.