Are laminated eyebrows even a thing?

I’m getting my eyebrows laminated,” says Youngest. “Laminated? No! Don’t do that!” I say, breaking my rule of not leaping in with both feet, causing battle lines to be drawn up, challenged, then defied. At least I DIDN’T say, “No you’re not! I grew you and I don’t like the sound of it. Days pushing you out then years keeping you bruise, blemish and dirt-free, a perfect specimen, just lovely. And now you go and do this to yourself. Piercings! Tattoos! Neon hair, skin the colour of Wotsits…”

I try again. “Do you know what lamination means sweetie?” I ask, kindly.

“Yes, Mother. I know what eyebrow lamination means.”

“Coated in hard plastic. Varnished. I’ve always wanted a laminator, for kiddies’ drawings, timetables, recipe cards, hate lists... but I don’t think they can do eyebrows,” I say. “How do you get your face in the machine?”

“Eyebrows laminated?” says Eldest, also worried. Aw, he does love his wee sister. He’s long used to having his hair put in bobbles or face mudpacked when the mood takes her, and lately has been heard consulting her about the function of moisturiser.

More skilled than me in the art of Youngest Child wrangling, he opts for humour. “Why stop at your eyebrows? Get your whole face laminated, then it would be shiny and you wouldn’t have to apply all that other stuff... em, highlighting an’ that.”

Our laughter dies under the cold stare of Youngest, scary under what I would have called ‘bushy’ but I know is ‘fluffy brows’, thanks to her browscara (you can’t use mascara?) and spoolie (what’s wrong with a dried out mascara brush?) regime.

“Stupid,” she says and shows us a tutorial on Youtube.

“Ah right,” I say. “No machines. Just brush up, perm, slap on clingfilm and Bob Dylan’s your uncle. I like that look, very Paolozzi. I’ll get it done too.” “No,” she says. “You can’t.”

“I can! They’re MY brows. You can’t browbeat me. You’re not the boss of me, lady.”

“Yes, I know Mother. I’m VERY sorry, but you just don’t have enough hair.” ■