I hate when you’re tooling along, living your life, and you sudden realize that one of your eyebrow hairs has grown so large that it’s curling down in front of your peripheral vision.

You think you can easily find it and root it out, but you grasp at it with your fingers and you can’t seem to touch it.  It’s like a desert mirage.

So you look in a mirror and discover that the mutant hair has reverted to its secret identity.  Part of the flock.  Just hanging out with lots of other nondescript, normal-sized hairs.

And then you leave and go do something else and what happens?  That’s right.  The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms is back on the job.  Other eyebrow hairs run screaming from its monstrous presence.  The eyebrow army fires high-impact weapons at it, but the serpentine creature breathes radioactive fire and blows them all away.

Unfortunately, you have to go to a meeting.  And you sit in the meeting.  And you don’t look at anybody.  Because you’re scared of someone getting smart and saying, “Hey, no one gave me a handout of the agenda.  Greg, could you use your eyebrow hair to lasso me a copy?”

And then you’ll suffer the humiliation of being defended by HR: “Excuse me, I’m going to have to ask you not to make those sort of jokes.  Greg can’t help what he is.  According to recent federal rulings, protected classes in the workplace are not limited to age, sex, gender, and race, but now include people who suffer from lycanthropy.”