This woman was not just an eye-brow specialist – she was a brow whisperer
Let me tell you about my brush with the Brow Queen. Who am I talking about? Okay, by now you must have heard of Suman Jalaf. No? Well, that is because perhaps you were born with a pair of perfectly symmetrical eyebrows, in which case you are sorted for life.
Or else you have been living under the kind of rock that also doubles as a really bad mirror!
Actually, honestly speaking, Suman is to eyebrows what Shakespeare is to sonnets and what all mothers are to unsolicited life advice, you see. Like them, she is a master, an institution, and someone who knows exactly where to draw the line. Literally too.
The first time I heard of her was from a friend who looked suspiciously well-rested at lunch. Not just the ‘I had a good night’s sleep’ kind of refreshed rested, but the ‘I have been to Bali and back and now I manifest inner peace’ type of rejuvenated rested. Turns out the cause for this glowing restful look was not wellness at all. The simple explanation was microblading.
“You must go to Suman because she changed my life,” my friend implored, eyes gleaming with evangelical fervour.
That was all the motivation I needed. Because if there is one thing we women trust more than a dermatologist with a foreign accent, it is another woman’s obsession with a beauty expert. Especially when that expert has touched the brows of the British supermodel Kate Moss and the Indian superstar Deepika Padukone. I mean, that is not a résumé, it is almost a spiritual calling.
So, I booked my appointment with the kind of hope normally reserved for fresh starts and arranged marriages, and before arriving at the venue in Knightsbridge, I half-expected a velvet rope and someone whispering “the Oracle will see you now!” Because this woman was not just an eye-brow specialist – she was a brow whisperer, a follicular magician, a hairline analyst.
She began threading brows at the tender age of 11, and while the rest of us were still playing with dolls, she was perfecting the sacred geometry of the human face with nothing more than a piece of string and terrifying precision.
Suman arrived a few minutes late, balancing a steaming cup of coffee and apologising profusely for the delay. She was poised and serene and possessed brows that blended perfectly with her appearance.
Soon she began to scrutinize my face the way an art historian studies a slightly suspicious Renaissance painting. Then, with the calm of someone who has resurrected follicles more dead than disco, she laid me down and got to work.
Her tools were as delicate as surgical instruments, and her technique was part artist, part surgeon and a very large part of being a very patient eyebrow therapist.
When it was over, I looked in the mirror. And dear readers, I gasped!
My brows were no longer estranged entities going through separate divorces. They were sisters. Possibly twins. They had direction. Purpose. Swagger even. I left the parlour walking taller, arching higher, and genuinely wondering if this is how Beyoncé feels all the time.
“Did you get a new haircut?” my neighbour asked as I greeted her this morning.
“No,” I said.
“A new job?” she probed.
I shook my head.
“Then?” she raised her scanty brows.
“You say,” I arched my finely-shaped ones back.
“You look well rested,” she complimented.
“Thanks to Suman,” I whispered as she retreated.
