Ever since 1979, when I tumbled out of the Merle Norman store with fuchsia cheekbones and four – count ‘em, four! – shades of shadow gracing my eyes, I’ve had a love affair with make-up.

My 1980′s work wardrobe included shoulder pads, pert bow ties and an eye-shadow to match every power suit in my closet. I spent an hour in the bathroom every morning during the 1990′s working hard to achieve a “natural” look and even as recently as the early 2000′s I was hot on the trail of the perfect shade of red lipstick.

Then things started to change. The eye shadow was the first to go. Instead of making me look youthful and wide-eyed, it began to make me look tired and slightly clownish, like I’d lost a run-in with a tropical fish. The lovely brown-red lipstick that I had worn for more than ten years suddenly made my mouth seem lifeless and drawn, as if I’d spent the better part of the day sucking on a rusty pipe. And even a light application of eyeliner looked like I was wearing too much.

I had entered the “less is more” era of makeup.

And while I can’t say this was entirely a bad thing–cheaper and less fuss–I sometimes missed the days when I could have a little fun with making up my face, when I could spend hours putting on make-up for a big night out on the town.  So can you really blame me for getting excited last week when I bellied-up to the new Brow Bar at a swanky, downtown department store?

I had read about this Brow Bar in our local paper. Below the picture of beautiful, lab-coat wearing 20-something girls with serious Brooke Shields brows was a small story assuring me that all a woman needed to look polished and chic was a pair of well-groomed eyebrows.  I was downtown anyway, killing time between meetings, and figured checking out the Brow Bar couldn’t do any harm. The young woman working the counter was ever so nice and before you could say “Groucho”, I was on a stool in the middle of the cosmetics department getting my brows done.

Now, my brows suffer from the opposite problem of the Brooke Shields clones: apparently I need more, not less, in the brow department. No tweezing or waxing for me. I need filler and powder and all manner of grooming devices to achieve a strong and natural looking brow. The earnest technician set to work with quick, feathery strokes that would make Picasso proud and ten minutes later, I was rushing out the door, now late for my next meeting but feeling sexy and strong, thanks to my professionally groomed brows.

I should have been tipped off by the quizzical looks I got from my associates during the meeting. At the time I just thought they were having trouble understanding my proposal but now I’m not sure.  After my meeting, I proceeded to the school to pick my daughter up at the end of her day. “Mom, are you mad at me?” she asked as she climbed in the car. I thought that was a little strange as greetings generally go but then again, I usually am angry with the kids about one thing or another so I didn’t give it much thought.

It wasn’t until I got home and had a good look in the mirror that I understood the strange reactions. I looked like I had two fuzzy brown caterpillars dissecting my face.

My erstwhile brow technician had gotten carried away and while my new eyebrows were fashionably full and expertly arched, they made me look angry and puzzled, like a woman who’s favourite show is about to start and she can’t figure out how to work the remote.

So much for my eyebrows, I thought as I washed all traces off my face. At first I was disappointed–the last bastion of make-up for middle-aged women was no more. But then I got an idea. I rummaged through the medicine cabinet until I found what I was looking for, something that surely would cheer me up.

My fuchsia cheek colour.