Oh, girl. Last night, I saw 1958’s Bell, Book and Candle for the very first time. It’s a bit of a trifle, but what a trifle it is! And it’s also apparently an allegory for pre-Stonewall homosexuality? Okay! Anyways, it’s about a witch who casts a spell on a publisher so he’ll fall in love with her. It stars Kim Novak as the witch and James Stewart as the publisher. Most importantly, though, it stars Kim Novak’s eyebrows as the world’s most clutch-your-pearls! perfect eyebrows. EVER:
DON’T YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN?!?!? PERFECTION.
Separately, Kim Novak’s eyebrows are like two oversized, painted silk pillows of exquisitely arched exaggeration; together, they’re a plush velvet fainting chaise of eyebrow eleganza handcrafted to cradle my weary heart.
As paradigms shifted swishily, it seemed only reasonable I have a series of visceral reaction. Shock! Delight! Giggles! Vapors! Intrigue! Ecstasy! Obsession! Love. You know, FEELINGS.
I was certain but nothing could top this eyebrow high, this highbrow, if you will. But then, like the space scientists in Prometheus or dinner reservations at Guy Fieri’s Times Square restaurant, I was wrong. I was so wrong.
You see, last night, I dreamt of Kim Novak’s eyebrows.
As if transfixed by glamour, I dreamt I’d plucked my two unkempt caterpillars into Quinto-esque petite Spock-brows, and I’d painted the most luxurious ode to La Novak in my favorite color of brow enhancer (Sepia Spinster: a muumuu bodied brown with fruity overtones and a bitter finish). Certainly this was the look, and I was ready to work some magic of my own on the men.
“Hey there, Henry Cavill. You can save my day any…day…”
“Looking good, Jake Johnson. What’s it take to be your new girl? A ukulele and some twee jeans?”
“Heyyy, Hugh Dancy. Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…wannabumpbeards?”
Magic, were it somehow unclear, was the essential word here.
Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, my mother appeared. She licked her thumb and proceeded to wipe down my brows my face as if I were a small child who’d made an unimaginable mess while eating his pudding.
Au revoir, glamour!
À bientôt, les hommes.
I then realized Kim Novak’s eyebrows are the sun, and I was but a mere Icarus who dared to fly too high. So, alone again with my plain Jane brows, I did what any reasonable queen would do. I shed a single tear of appreciation, for this is how true eyebrow beauty is served: