Letters of Life

Lash Bash

So doing the lash extensions was just a lark. Except I’ve realized, 12 days into looking doll-eyed, that such vanity exacts a high price. The price is that I’ve become the thing I dreaded the most: High maintenance.

Since when did a pair of nylon bristles exact such a high price? Anything semi-permanent holds the threat, or promise, of changing your life. The first thing to go was the way I clean my face. No longer the splashing of water with abandonment. I did that when I came home from the salon and I might as well have splashed onion juice onto my eyes. Residual eyelash glue dripped from my lash line right onto my pupils and they smarted to high heaven. I have been sponging my face carefully ever since. Washing my hair is also no longer the carefree, sudsy, experience it used to be.

The second thing is that the spiders have not gone away. In an earlier post, I’d said the extensions were like spider’s legs hanging over my eyelids. Well, the legs are still there, impairing my top vision especially when I’m out at night and need all the vision I can get. And when I’m tired, the overhang feels even more pronounced, like willow trees over a pond. I feel just as melancholic.

Thirdly, I have inadvertently adopted Minnie Mouse’s bad habit of batting her eyelashes. I have never batted my eyes at anyone; it’s not my style. I mean, it’s not as if I’m batting my eyes at Mickey either. I find myself in the middle of prosaic conversation with, say, the supermarket checkout aunty, or the pool attendant, and my eyes start batting themselves.

Today, a few lashes became unglued. I peeled them off merrily. I hardly care that my lashes look patchy now. Things are looking up.

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