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I just don’t even

My first born son is in the bathroom, plucking his eyebrows.


  1. Angelico Nguyen, Esq., OP says

    Pushkin, via Stanley Mitchell’s superb translation of Eugene Onegin:

    Shall I attempt to picture truly
    The secret and secluded den
    Where fashion’s model pupil duly
    Is dressed, undressed and dressed again?
    Whatever trinket-dealing London
    To satisfy our whims abundant
    Exports across the Baltic flood,
    Exchanging it for tallow, wood;
    Whatever Paris, in its hunger,
    Having made taste an industry,
    Invents for our frivolity,
    For luxury and modish languor —
    These graced, at eighteen years of age,
    The study of our youthful sage.

    Pipes from Tsargrad, inlaid with amber,
    Bronzes and china on a stand,
    Perfumes in crystal vials to pamper
    The senses of a gentleman;
    Combs, little files of steel, and scissors,
    Straight ones and curved, and tiny tweezers,
    And thirty kinds of brush to clean
    The nails and teeth, and keep their sheen.
    Rousseau (I’ll note with your permission)
    Could not conceive how solemn Grimm
    Dared clean his nails in front of him,
    The madcap sage and rhetorician.
    Champion of rights and liberty,
    In this case judged wrong-headedly.

    One still can be a man of action
    And mind the beauty of one’s nails:
    Why fight the age’s predilection?
    Custom’s a despot and prevails.
    My Eugene, like Chaadaev, fearful
    Of jealous censure, was most careful
    About his dress — a pedant or
    A dandy, as we said before.
    At least three hours he spent preparing
    In front of mirrors in his lair,
    And, stepping out at last from there,
    Looked like a giddy Venus wearing
    A man’s attire, who, thus arrayed,
    Drives out to join a masquerade.

  2. Angelico Nguyen, Esq., OP says

    Who calls me fribble? gels my hair across?
    Plucks off my brows, and blows them in my face?

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