Eyebrows upon eyebrows—my father, my mother, and four brothers except one—the ones that stick out on a face. My mother’s and mine clean and organized.  My father’s grey with wisdom. Three of my brother’s large and messy. Then there’s the youngest.
His eyebrows are nonexistent; his face sits like a flat canvas. His eyebrows are haystacks missing the hay. They catch attention but solely because they’re missing. My family’s eyebrows are thick and full. His look like the first time shaving gone wrong. Plucking, oh the plucking—he will never have to.
Funny, somehow flattering, and fitting. The sight of him with eyebrows would make a baby cry. They may make you question what is missing, missing the unnoticably noticeable nonexistent eyebrows. Like him they may go unnoticed but are loud in their own way.