We met in an airport in Paris.
I was strolling through the Duty Free shop when I made the classic traveler's mistake: I took a gander at myself in a magnifying mirror. I immediately discovered that in addition to the carry-on bags I was toting beneath my eyes, my eyebrows had gone rogue. Rather than resembling anything chicly Parisian, they looked like they'd vacationed at a terrorist training camp in Unibrowistan. I quickly smeared on my brightest lipstick, hoping to draw attention down to my mouth. But the lipstick trick failed badly—I now appeared to be the lovechild of Betty Boop and Groucho Marx.
Next, I tried shading my eyes with sunglasses as if dodging paparazzi. But glancing back in the mirror to see if that worked, I saw something even stranger: a thin blonde hair that seemed to sprout from the center of my forehead. And then I realized: That hair was rooted in place. How a hair could bud there I will never know, but I'm tempted to blame France for inspiring its growth, what with the country's mad love of cheese and bohemian grooming.
Though I was willing to let the eyebrows slide till I landed stateside 12 hours later, this forehead foliage obviously needed pruning ASAP. Otherwise, the freak hair would likely keep me from my destiny: meeting and marrying the stranger I was certain to encounter on the plane. But in my darkest, hairiest hour, Tweezerman came to my rescue! From a nearby counter, its gleaming silver slanted tips poked out of its shiny aqua coating as if extending a hand back to well-groomed civilization. Reader, I grabbed it. After I threw money at the cashier, my Tweezerman went to work. Its angled tip easily pulled each errant hair, and within two (nearly) painless minutes it not only plucked evidence that my forehead was molting, it helped reshape my face.
I now keep a full-size Tweezerman in my medicine cabinet at home and a Mini in my makeup bag. Each is slim, sleek, and discreet, and anytime a hair sprouts somewhere weird or upsetting, it takes care of business—no fuss, no muss. As the French might say, "Tweezerman, j'adore!"
Robin Epstein teaches sitcom writing at NYU. She is the author of the novel God Is in the Pancakes and cowrote a nonfiction legal guide with her lawyer-sister called So Sue Me, Jackass! Follow her on youtube.com/RelativeLaw and @sosuemejackass.