The Indelible Stamp

I have had a dream of eyebrows.

In this dream, I see only eyebrows, my eyebrows. I am looking into a mirror, but focused only on my eyebrows. They are magnified and in extreme detail. I am certain I have never looked at my eyebrows in as much detail as I have dreamed them. Now, having had this dream and having subsequently examined my eyebrows, I know that my subconscious mind has always known my eyebrows.

In this dream of eyebrows, I know that I am preparing for a normal day and it is morning. There are no clocks, nor daylight. I know that it is morning the way things are simply known in dreams. In this dream, I have the feeling of morning. In the morning of my dream, I can see clearly the shape of my eyebrows, the way they rest over my sockets. I cannot see my eyes. Neither can I see my forehead. But both are there, framing my eyebrows but just out of frame.

In the dream, my eyebrows betray no emotion, but only rest upon my face like a blank check waiting for the day’s charges to be filled in. I am surprised by the expressionlessness of my eyebrows because, in my dream, I am surprised by their uniformity and shapeliness; I expect to see surprise there, some betraying arch or furrow.

I stare at my eyebrows, noticing every hair and the way they all lie together as a team, no follicle nudging its hair out of step. They are well-shaped as men’s eyebrows go, with no errant hairs spreading to my eyelids at the outer ends. The inner ends, too, seem to form a clean row of roots like stalks of sunflowers all leaning towards my temples.

In this dream of eyebrows, I realize that they are my mother’s eyebrows. This is not to say that I realize that I am looking at my mother’s face and my mother’s literal eyebrows. Instead, in this dream, I am looking at my own eyebrows and realize they are my mother’s heritable eyebrows.

Had this dream ended there, I might have been able to discount it, dismiss it as one of those shocking and unpleasant dreams that rears its ugly head just before the alarm sounds. Instead, the dream persists. I continue to focus on my eyebrows, feeling their congenital weight.

I have always considered myself to be an individual of few expressions. On many occasions, in fact, my mother has made a point of criticizing this fact.

Upon receiving dark blazer from an uncle, “Harold! Show your uncle how much you love that color on you.”

Upon explaining my hopes of someday becoming a tailor, “It would iron the lines on my face if you would simply grin when being facetious, Harold.”

In general, my expressions are: watching, sleeping, confusion. Beyond this, I have never given my face much thought.

I am concerned about my eyebrows. I am concerned about my eyebrows because I am much accustomed to my mother’s eyebrows and the way they orchestrate the rest of her face. I have spent these last weeks photographing my mother, catching her unawares or much distressed. I have enlarged each photograph, caring only for the expressions. The walls of my bedroom have come to regard me with mixed emotions.

Here, both eyebrows arch sharply into central furrows, the outer edges sloping down towards the corners of the eyes. The furrows seem to pull the muscles of the nostrils, causing them to flare upwards. These eyebrows are displeased.

There, the left eyebrow, and only the left, seems to flatten itself out entirely like a miniature horizon as the eye sets below it. Meanwhile, the right eyebrow maintains it composure, holding its arched shape. The skin about the eyebrows is smooth on both sides, yet there is a distinct transition zone of tension in the expanse between. These eyebrows are disapproving.

Near the window, the eyebrows seem unattached to the musculature beneath, as if they were simply laid on the skin to rest a moment. Those muscles that would hold down the brows instead spend their time tightening the eyes and upper cheeks, pulling it all up into corners by the temples. Even the nose seems to be pulled higher, making use of those muscles freed by the eyebrow loss. These eyebrows are honest.

I am comfortable watching and sleeping. I am even comfortable with confusion, in as much as I have no particular sense of discomfort or shame when experiencing it. But what of these walls?

It may be the case that I have been experiencing this range of expression my entire life, never recognizing it for what it is. If this is so, there must be a stark disconnect between the way I understand myself to be and the way I am perceived by others. Up to this point, I would describe myself as a rather languid and level person; I have believed others would agree. But it could be that I am instead seen as a liar. I may have entertained countless conversations in which my face betrayed emotions that my words denied. This may be why I have only one friend.

On the other hand, it may be the case that I have only the potential to make these expressions, that my eyebrows are predators lying in wait. If this is the case, one day I will wake up with a stranger’s face. My expressions will be as jarring to others as they are to me. I may make the exaggerated expressions of a child, testing the limits of my expressions and their reception in social settings. But if my eyebrows suddenly switch on, my perspective will remain unchanged. My face will express things that I have not the emotional currency to support. This may prevent me from ever attracting another friend.

The therapist my mother sends me to is concerned about the photographs. At first, he was concerned that I had taken to spying on my mother, following her about and taking snapshots of her conducting her life. The unnatural interdependency between my mother and I had always worried him, he said. I explained that I continue to have no interest in my mother’s affairs. This generated quite a reaction from his eyebrows. I explained that the pictures were only of her eyebrows, that they were for study, and that they were all confined to the walls of my room. The therapist my mother sends me to then discussed, at great length, whether or not I felt my mother has an overbearing influence in my life.

I told him I am not concerned with my mother or her behavior. I am concerned with aspects of myself which are utterly beyond my control or hers, those things that are dictated by pedigree. There are countless choices to be made to divorce myself from my lineage. But not my eyebrows. Those will never be mine.