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Frida Kahlo, Self-Portrait, 1940. See discussi...

Brassica was horrified.  She had her eyebrows threaded as she was beginning to develop a monobrow like Frida Kahlo’s.  The beauty therapist offered to do her moustache on the next visit.

Moustache!  What moustache?  She was peering into the mirror in her dressing room and yes, although not exactly a handlebar, or a Gerald Nabarro version, there was a shadow on her upper lip.

 I wonder how long I’ve been going around like that? she deliberated.

There was nothing else for it but electrolysis, so off she scooted to Suttonford’s Pride Knows No Pain beauty studio, where she subjected her hirsutism and her husband’s credit card to a series of expensive shocks.

Suddenly, everywhere she looked, she could spot moustachioed women.  Was that a tell-tale penumbra perched over Keira Knightley’s lips as she kissed Aaron Taylor-Johnson?  Whatever.  She had no intention of stealing Conchita Wurst’s thunder.

It was as if she was experiencing a post Road to Damascus revelation, where, sight returned, scales having fallen from her eyes, she saw everything more clearly.

For the Love of God by Damien Hirst (2007)

Julia Roberts might have been cool about hair in certain parts of her anatomy, but Brassica knew that she personally would wage war on any productive follicle.  Dermo-abrasion- whatever!  Should one dot be visible, she would stud her skull with diamante until she resembled For the Love of God by Damien Hirst.  Or she could wear a hoodie, balaclava, visor, diver’s helmet, burka or a World War 1 gas mask, asbestos or not.

Mum, why can’t you take us to school?  moaned the twins, Castor and Pollux.

I’ve got an appointment at the studio, she mumbled under the bandaging.  She simply couldn’t face the other mothers in the school yard.

But we don’t have to go with Rollo, Ferdy and that lot, do we?  They’re always late, so we will end up getting a detention too.  Anyway, Mr Milford-Haven wanted to talk to you about our school reports.

What school reports?  You didn’t give them to me. Are they still in your satchels?

Castor and Pollux exchanged guilty glances.

We were scared that you and Dad would be angry.

Angry? Why?

Because our form teacher wrote us a joint report which said that we had a glorious future in show-business as Jedward 2.

That is unacceptable and unprofessional, said Brassica.  I will have to have words with Mr Milford– what is his name again?-

We all call him ‘Caligula’, the twins interjected.

Well, whatever it is, I am going to see him about the bullying you have both been subjected to this term.

Bullying?  They looked puzzled.

You told me that that boy in the orchestra was calling you Bastard and Bollocks.

But John’s our bestest buddy, Mum.

Well, I am not having him copying your Latin prep when I spent so long looking up all those words on the internet.  He’ll probably end up getting the end of year Classics cup.  And, I saw his mother sniggering when you- she paused to look directly at Castor– were playing your flugelhorn solo in the Claustrophobic competition.

Shostakovich, mum, supplied Pollux.

John! Such a common name anyway, Brassica continued.  After all, he’s only on Grade 1 violin and you two are sitting Grade 5 theory at Christmas.  Hasn’t he got learning difficulties?

Probably, said Castor.  He is allowed extra time in the school orchestra rehearsals and he is always behind the beat.

Then, horror of horrors, just as Ferdy and Rollo’s mum’s 4X4 drew up and the horn was tooted, Pollux asked:

Do all mummies have hair on their chinnie-chin-chins?

Brassica shoved them both out of the porch:

Only when they have produced little pigs!

Very bad parent, she admonished herself as the children waved goodbye out of the window.  But not as bad as John’s mum.

She would soon blow her house down!  Now, where had she put these tweezers?

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