Friday, February 13, 2009

REWARD OFFERED!

HAVE YOU SEEN THESE EYEBROWS?

Last sighted entering Beautyologist on Carlisle Street, Balaclava. Police suspect foul play. A reward is offered for any information leading to the return of the brows unharmed.

Had a new lady at the beauty parlour this week. Following farcical exchange as she didn't speak much English, just New Zealandish: My name is Jinna - Gina? - No, Jinna - Jenny? - No Jinna - Jenna? - No etc etc. This unnamed lady went on to apply overly hot wax to my brow. OUCH!!!

I now have the slightly bored and vacuous look of a mediaeval saint. (Which is not the only drama - when I indicated to my beloved that I would be pleased to receive eyelash curlers for a Valentine, I was asked What for? Because apparently I have NO EYELASHES!)

A few thoughts on eyebrows:

Latin name = supercilium. Yes, as in supercilious.

In the Edo period a Japanese gal could shape her eyebrows in such a way as to indicate that she was married with one child.

It also seems that, as a mammal, I need to raise my brows when I am scanning for danger.

As you probably know, mediaeval lasses liked to shave their brows off (and did the same to their hairline to make it higher). I did read that the 17th century beautician would use mouse fur to create new brows (gross but unsubstantiated). The 1910 lady went in for tattooed brows, which would have been a drag when she reached the 1930s as eyebrows disappeared again in this era, when the finely arched brow was in vogue. 1920s went for the straight brow, the 1940s liked them with a natural arc, the 50s saw them darken up. The 80s liked them Brooke Shields big.

It is possible to get an eyebrow transplant.

I need eyebrows so my car computer can tell when I'm not paying attention. Or am asleep.

I do urge you to check out the Bad Brow section of this site devoted to eyebrows. Gentlemen may choose to visit one of my favourite blogs: Moustaches of the Nineteenth Century (the one-stop blog spot for your Nineteenth Century Mustache needs!) And if this has left you feeling somewhat insecure and in need of a makeover you may be interested in this photographic work on eyebrows Freaky is the reviewer that claims "this is the first book that I have truly enjoyed in a long time". Even freakier - there's a town called Eyebrow in Canadia!



Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Four hours of crazy things happening

New semester of belly dancing started on the weekend. Complete and utter sweat-fest. And I could be the first belly dancer to keep my socks on. Socks can be seductive? I'd forgotten how filthy the floor is (I have a clean feet thing going on). But I did come away covered in glitter so that kinda makes up for it.

Tonight was my first class of balboa. History lesson: the bal started during the 20s and 30s, on the crowded dancefloors of the West Coast USA - as in the Balboa Pavillion on the Balboa Penninsula, Newport Beach, California - where you could see Count Basie, Benny Goodman and the Dorsey brothers. These dancehalls were super squishsome, so it was virtually impossible to unleash your Charleston or do some of the wilder swing moves such as the swing out. In fact, many dancehalls prohibited these exuberant moves, in the interest of decency and safety. What you get is a dance done in super closed position. As in glued to your partner, leaving no 'room for Jesus' (take that conservative dancehall people!) So while you're getting all cosy upstairs your feet are doing some crazy fast suffling downstairs. Despite the speed of your twinkling toes it's quite a dreamy dance.

I set out in good time. Managed to dash across the road to catch a departing tram. A departing tram that pretty soon decided it was actually a returning tram. Got up to Toorak Road on Chapel Street and the driver announced that due to mumble mumble mumble the tram would be fuzzy fuzzy fuzzy. Which meant 'Get off, I am going back to St Kilda'. As did the next tram. And the tram ahead. After some frenzied txting ("I'm going to be late!! do I wait or walk???!!") another tram turned up. A new, confident tram. A tram that knew where it was going and wasn't going to let anything such as red lights keep it from getting there. Which is just as well because I think I spent fifteen minutes at the one intersection waiting for cars ahead to turn right. After an undignified sprint I made it to the class. Which is in fact a TIKI BAR!! By this stage I was very keen on seeing if I could get a blue cocktail served with a straw in a coconut shell. I settled for fanning myself (Asian fans are all the rage in swing circles - see, you can be sweaty AND ladylike) and worrying about all the dancers that seemed to know what they were doing. Class proceeded. I got sweaty. I got shy. I got told I danced 'very lightly' by a teacher! hurrah! hurrah! My feet are sore. Favourite lyric of the night: 'from her quaint hat down to her boots, was a fantastic scenic route'.

Came home to delightful summer eve. The neighbours were running through traffic with their Moshiach-is-coming flags. (Surely a disturbingly practical way to test that you are indeed G-d's chosen people.) Little cat Lyle was at Salon de Kim. Usually cats get all antsy when you try to bathe them. Nothing to do with their thoughts on water. It is because, once their fur is wet, their cover is blown and you will realise that what you have is acually a weedy pink rat in a cat suit. Lyle is such a chilled out critter that I came home to see him sitting, if not happily then at least resignedly in the bathtub having a fur treatment. Ok - flea treatment. But it smells nice. After a towel rub and a tongue dry he got a little kitty cocktail of springwater with a twist of salmon (John West label). Papparazi forgot to get batteries for the camera so no cats without makeup special this week. All is purringly peaceful except that Two and a half men is on in the background and their frequent use of the word 'boob' is stifling my creativity. 'Boob' could be my kryptonite. Oh, and now our apartment block's resident drunk crazy guy is getting stuck into the neighbours for having put away their flags and enjoying a bbq. Because a group of Jewish boys having a bbq is just so offensive and disruptive. Clearly their sausages are sizzling in a threatening manner.

***News from the front, by our correspondent Chairman Kim:

As anyone familiar Mr & Mrs Chairman knows; we live next door to an Israeli drop-in centre or a Chabad House. Now, in the past we've had some... difficulties with some of the Isralies who've 'dropped-in'. Recently however they've been on best behaviour and quite courteous to those living in the immediate area (extra bagels for the possums etc).

Tonight they decided that it would be a nice idea to cook a BBQ on thier back veranda/stairway. Quite right too - it's a balmy night with a nice cool breeze. However, what most of you won't know is that our block contains a raving alcoholic who appears to have taken a rather nasty dislike to our Israeli brethren. He decided that them having a BBQ was not a good idea and proceeded to hold forth on what a bad idea it actually was. To the Israelies. Rather than stopping at venting his drunken feelings verbally, he decided that a call to the local fire brigade would show those damned Jews! I arrived back from the gym just as he was in full-flight about what a disaster their smoke was and how it wasn't a BBQ at all (which it clearly was) but rather a house fire (which it clearly wasn't).

After ranting to me about it I decided that he should probably be put back in his box and so proceeded to do just that. However, it was all for nought as he'd already called the fire brigade. He'd also enlisted the assistance of one of the troubled youth living behind the Chabad House (who've had rather serious run-ins with the Israelies in the past). SIGH. It all ended rather well with the Israelies having their BBQ and the drunken buffoon looking like he's going to be lumbered with the $1200 fire brigade call out fee. See? There is justice in the world.

Ah what it is to live in 'little Palestine'! ***********

On a spooky note, the girl next to me at dance was the spitting image of Donna! Kookarama or what??!! Donna, you need a bright green shirt dress. You look great in it.