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Don’t do it, girls

What is the deal with people shaving their eyebrows and then having them tattooed back on again? Is it me, or is this truly weird?

It seems to me that plenty of people think they’re going to end up looking like this:

When in fact, they end up looking like this:

Or even, God forbid, this.

There is a story in the Daily Mail about a woman who is so distraught after paying £120 for new eyebrows, that she can’t now leave her house. (Bit of a mystery therefore as to why she has agreed to have her photo taken by a national newspaper, but hey, it’s a free country.) The paper says she will have to wait up to six years for the look to fade. 

£120???? Here’s an amazing beauty tip, girls. It’s called a pencil. It’ll cost you a fiver and if you don’t like your new brows, you can rub them off in six seconds. Yes, really.

Wish somebody had told this guy:

And as a final plea, will people please stop drawing on their dogs? It may be funny. But it’s not fair, and one day, some canine karma will definitely bite you in the butt.

Then again, you may already have had your eyebrows tattooed.

Pictures via Creative Commons, from:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monroe_piercing

http://www.looneypalace.com/dogs-with-eyebrows/

http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2012/039/4/d/ming_of_mongo_by_andepoul-d4p41ho

Holiday snaps

Well, I’m back from my hols. The suitcases are spilling their guts all over the house, the dogs have come back from the kennels, and I’ve thrown away the orange I found mouldering on the kitchen counter.

I’ve been to the supermarket and stocked up on beer and bread and jammy dodgers and such fare as you lay before the faces of husbands and teenage children, and I’ve put away my shorts for another year.

I’ve got some nice pictures, including one of a beauty salon in Bordeaux, that my cousin Douglas seems unaccountably to have given his name to. We spent the day in the city, shopping and farting about in the sunlit squares and generally behaving like happy tourists.

But the best memory is of our first night. Son, 14, who was in rather a giddy mood, decided to wind up his sister by thrusting her hairbrush down the front of this pyjama bottoms. ‘Look Rose,’ he crowed rather disgustingly. ‘Look what I’m doing with your hairbrush.’ To which his sister witheringly replied, ‘That’s not my hairbrush. That’s dad’s.’