First she revealed to us thick eyebrows, and we obediently complied. At that point she said dyed eyebrows, and a few of us gave that a shot for a bit. Now we cull them.
Rihanna was the flag-bearer, conveying to her faithful devotees that things would not be as they’d for some time been. It was composed all over ― captured for the up coming front of English Vogue’s September issue ― in two exquisite wisps masterminded on her eyelids.
So sparse, so sharp. Like a jeté plunged in ink. Like two creepy crawly legs, curved into sensitive hills. Like scarcely capable of being heard whisper, solidified into a murmur.
The picture was preferred and shared and spread. Obviously. As she knew it would be.
Rihanna enthusiasts instantly comprehended. The time had desired pencil-thin eyebrows. Regardless of the state of our countenances or lushness of our eyebrow hairs: We would tweeze, we would wax, we would string, we would do what must be finished.
First she revealed to us thick eyebrows, and we obediently complied. At that point she said dyed, and a few of us gave that a shot for a bit. Presently we should cull until the point when we resemble the Lady of the hour of Chucky. We will influence our countenances to look interminably confounded yet unmoved. We will submit to the cycle by and by with happiness. We’re certain it will look as great on us as it does on her.
From a separation, her thin eyebrows look relatively like feathered creatures out yonder. Do you see them there, their two wings coasting not too far off? Sitting tight for another day?