Am I the only one who thinks it’s strange to live in a world where bookstores and newspapers can’t stay open, but there’s an entire storefront in the mall dedicated to eyebrow threading?
Everyone I know loves bookstores and libraries, and they don’t just go there to drink coffee, hang out, or take up space. They go to get books and read them.
Almost everyone I know, including the most jaded, streetwise teens, can talk nostalgically about a book someone read to them when they were young or a favorite story they’ll never forget. At the school where I work, a lot of kids would rather have a pass to the library than a chocolate bar.
But never have I ever heard someone say they really needed to go and have their eyebrows threaded.
I can understand eyebrow grooming as one of many services at a salon, but a whole store dedicated to it?
Certainly, eyebrow drama is on the rise. I would go so far as to say the werewolf look is trending. It is getting ridiculous, as are all these cauliflower recipes.
Who is going to put cauliflower in a food processor to make pizza crust? That is just too much to ask.
The next thing you know, we’ll have a stand in the mall selling pretzels made out of cauliflower dough for $10 each, but if you want a book made out of paper, or a newspaper, you’ll have to order it online or drive to Washington.
Day trips to Washington for books will become a thing, kind of like going to Trader Joe’s. People with eyebrows that have been carefully threaded away, then painted back on in deeper, richer color, will gather in the early morning hours carrying canvas totes with quotes from classic novels printed on them. They will load into their hybrid vehicles and make the trek to someplace where there are enough humans to support the sale and consumption of printed media, someplace with tall buildings and escalators.
Strange. Not quite dystopian, but not right, either.
Of course, there’s plenty of dystopia to go around. The one valid argument against reading the news may be that it’s too depressing.
Personally, I just read a poem to a lizard. I’m very worried about her because she won’t open her eyes or eat. My son doesn’t like when I write about his animals because he feels it’s an invasion of his privacy or their privacy, and I see what he means. Plus, when you write about something, there’s a strange karma that comes with it. You can jinx a good thing or in a sense make something real when you don’t quite want it to be. I guess it is like that with any way of documenting your life. That’s why I rarely post selfies with my students. I’ve learned the hard way to be superstitious.
I found a dead baby bird on the street the other day while I was taking a walk. He had probably fallen out of his nest the night before during the big hail storm. I was so tired that I couldn’t really muster the proper emotion or reverence for a dead baby bird who died in an ice storm. All I could do was wrap him in a leaf, feeling the weight and volume of his small body as I laid it in the grass.
There is something about birds that we take very seriously. We believe they are symbolic harbingers of something, and of course, they are. A 9th grader in one of my classes last semester wrote an essay about how he stopped believing in God because of a dead baby bird.
On a lighter but semantically related note, I spent several hours last night making cupcakes and icing with a recipe for Hummingbird Cake because I read a story that said it was popular in 1978 – the year I was born. I followed the recipe carefully and it turned out OK, not as good as it should have been for the effort, but certainly better than if I’d put cauliflower in it.