Thursday, September 4, 2008

All in the Eye of the Beholder

So, today I was shopping with Sam Sam. A display of fake eyelashes for Halloween caught his eye and he asked if we could get some. I said no. Besides the fact that he's a 2 year old boy, Sammy is the last person who needs fake eyelashes. Any mascara model would kill for his forever-long beautiful lashes that were clearly wasted on a boy. But then I started thinking about my eyelashes. I've never had big, full lashes. I just don't. I blame genetics. But, I didn't think they were that bad until my little sister wanted to give me a makeover and commented on them with a subtle, “Wow, your eyelashes are really short.” It had never really occurred to my consciousness what short, stubby eyelashes I have. It makes sense now, why I always get excited about new mascara commercials. I spent some time in the mirror that afternoon, staring at them. I tried batting them. It just looked like I had something in my eye. I tried opening my eyes really wide. Then I just looked surprised. And I got wrinkles on my forehead. So, I thought, what if I did get some fake eyelashes. Obviously I couldn't just start wearing long, luscious lashes right away. People would do a double take, and then probably start laughing. No, maybe I could sort of graft them in over time. I'd start out with some short stubby fakes, and then gradually replace them. Every week I'd do another sixteenth of an inch or so. Then, after about a month and a half, I'd have these long, beautiful, innocent-yet-so-seductive eyelashes. People on the street would stop and stare, this time in the good way. But then there's the issue of maintenance. If they were to fall off, there could be problems. Especially if they fell off while I was talking to someone. “And then I walked into Ann Taylor Loft and I saw—what? Is something wrong? What are you looking at? Why do you look afraid?” I'd smack into walls as I covered my eyes and ran blushing out of the building. Or worse, what if only one of them fell off and I didn't notice? The person I'd be talking to would look from eye to eye, trying to figure out what in the world was wrong with my eyes, and what that hairy caterpillar-like thing was doing on the collar of my shirt. They'd start unconsciously toying with their own eyelashes. Then when they figured it out, they'd be too nice to laugh. Instead, they'd kind of cough and say (fluttering their hand around their eye) things like, “Um, you' of...right...there...sort of..” They'd never be able to get it out, so they'd quickly excuse themselves from the situation. And I wouldn't understand, until, that night, after a day of running errands in public, when I looked in the bathroom mirror. And then I'd move to Canada.

I think I'd better stick with my own “fun size” eyelashes and keep hoping for some new miracle mascara.

2 love notes:

Amy R said...

I know. It's so unfair. I have the short stubby kind, too, while Michael & David both have long, thick lashes. Totally wasted on boys.

Bryner Family said...

You are such a hilarious writer! My girls all got the long, luscious lashes from their Daddy. Hooray for that! :)