With only a few minutes to spare, I applied some light foundation to even out my skin, dabbed the unglossiest lip-gloss I owned, and debated plucking my eyebrows. I needed to have my eyebrows done, and I’d been letting them grow in to get my money’s worth. Face pressed to the mirror, I wondered if my unibrow made me appear artsy or feminist … or uni-bomber? I backed away from my reflection figuring that a raw newly-tweezed brow would be worse. I grabbed my tweed cap and angled it slightly down over one side of my face/unibrow, put on my favorite clear acrylic earrings (to distract attention from my unibrow), and raced down stairs to get my scarf, gloves, and coat on—at this rate, I’d need another fifteen minutes to decide on the right mix of patterns and textures.
I hadn’t wanted to be early but with all my fussing, I was now late. I grabbed my grey coat and purple plaid scarf and headed out the door. Realizing I’d forgotten my phone, I raced back upstairs … and changed into my threadbare jeans.
Jessica wore a wool sweater, though I can’t remember what color. I have no idea if she wore jeans or pants, but she didn’t wear a dress. She was hatless and her hair was brushed, maybe even blow-dried (so obviously she didn’t care that other “moms” might frown upon her stealing time from “those poor kids” to shower and dry her hair so early in the morning). Despite my unibrow, we chatted easily for over three hours and had to leave many half-started threads of conversation dangling, to make room for the diner’s lunch rush.
Next time I won’t waste any valuable chat time by overstressing the dressing …
