Growing up in Paris, I spent years trying to tame my thick, unruly eyebrows. Plucking them, hiding them, wishing they were anything but mine.
Then one ordinary morning, in my favorite little café, a new waitress leaned over and told me the brows I'd spent my whole life fighting were the most beautiful thing about my face.
I didn't believe her. But something shifted. For the first time, I wondered: what if the thing I'd been trying to fix was never broken at all?