It’s finally come to this; I’ve found an even minisculer part of my body to obsess me. As if endlessly abusing what is delicately referred to as my “bikini area” weren’t enough, I recently began tormenting another fragile part of my anatomy. Poor eyelashes, they never knew what hit ‘em.
For most of my life my eyelashes were able to escape the bouts of critical frenzy to which I periodically subjected my body. The only real eyelash-related decision I can ever recall making was the “to use navy mascara or not to use navy mascara?” question. Good ole reliable pink-and-green did the job, and its simple wand dispensed all the magic my eyelashes needed – I thought.
Then I met my real estate agent, Sherri, who sported the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. It was hard to concentrate on anything she said, such was the mesmerizing power of those fuzzy suckers. “Mama want,” I drooled; I needed some of that mind-clouding glamour. I’d heard about lash extensions, so right before this big date I threw myself into making myself as eye-popping, breath-taking, and groin-tingling as possible and I dived in and pimped my peepers.
I willingly plunked down $450 to lie on a table for 2 hours while an Albanian woman with post-nasal drip painstakingly applied individual lashes to my taped-shut lids. We’d haggled over how long the faux fringe should be; she suggested a “somewhat natural look” while I was a proponent of the “Carol Channing Meets Las Vegas Showgirl look.” (We settled on “everyday drag queen” length.)
I LOVED the results. When I looked in the mirror instead of my usual squinty Zellwegger eyes I saw big, Bambi , bat-worthy lashes. They gave me a fuzzy feeling (literally) and put a spring in my step. My life would heretofore be measured as Before Lashes (B.L.) and After Lashes (A.L.). There were only 2 problems:
1. The fix was short. My lash high needed constant touch-ups at $100 a pop. Lashes were supposed to last a month, but they really started looking puny and all normal by week three.
2. Maybe because mine were burlesque queen long, but a lash was always getting stuck in my eye. I’d end up absent-mindedly tweaking and pulling at them, which not only hastened their demise but made my own eyelashes come out right with them. By the end of the month I had less lashes than I’d started with, and I knew I had to end the vicious cycle.
By now I was used to my super-sized baby browns, and felt Quasimodo-y with my paltry ole lashes. I tested out several mascaras, including FiberWig and the Lancome mascara trilogy. Eh. Then I decided to drop some science on my lids: I lay down 150 big ones for RevitaLash, this stuff that’s supposed to actually encourage lash growth. I’ve heard from, oh, at least 2 people that the stuff really works. Though now solidly a member of the Lash Club for Idiots, I was still daunted by the instructions. Warning after warning made it sound like if you get even a molecule of this stuff you’re swiping on your eyelids into your actual eyes you would go blind, explode, or possibly catch on fire.
Despite the scary warnings, I have started painting this stuff at my lash line each night before bed. I’ll let you know whether I grow long, lovely lashes or go blind. Clearly, I’ve already gone mad.
(And yes, for those of you doing the math, yes, I’ve spent over $600 on my eyelashes. Don't worry, I'm whipping myself in my lash-induced shame spiral.)