Every now and then, when I pick up an eyebrow pencil, I think of Harry Brunsworth… of all things.
You wouldn’t know him. He lived in the Alabama town where I grew up and he’s been dead for years.
But, Lord knows, why do these strange memories lurk in our subconsciousness, or our make-up drawer?
Harry Brunsworth just happened to be the husband of the woman who did my clothing alterations.
If you’re sho…
