My mom started hiding her tweezers from me when I was about 13, because she said that my eyebrows didn’t need maintaining (first degree murder with WORDS), and so for a long time I had to keep my shit fresh by using God’s tweezers: my fingernails and a steady hand. So it microwaves the vulture meat turnover in my chest to see that Frances McDormand and her teenage son Pedro McDormand Cohen have bonded over tweezers, brow wax and the same philosophy that eyebrows are everything.
If eyes are the window to the whatever, then eyebrows are the valance. And if you’ve got a grease stained, weasel-chewed valance nobody’s going to notice what’s outside your damn windows. Frances and Pedro know this.
Pedro’s eye valances are a couple dozen plucks away from looking like a junkie alley chola who sold her brow hairs to Eyebrow Locks of Love (please tell me such a thing exists) for a few dollars, but he knew when to put the tweezers down and walk away. And sometimes walking away from the sweet sensation of pulling out a brow hair is the hardest part. So brav-fucking-o, Pedro!