Many, many, years ago, soon after I arrived in Austin, Texas to go to school, I went out on a date with a young, handsome man. The details are a little fuzzy, not unlike most details anymore, but I recall it was an afternoon date and we were going to rent a canoe on Barton Creek and then afterwards, have a little picnic on the shore. I think he (and I actually found his name in an old journal: David) said he’d bring stuff for the picnic so I arrived empty-handed. Turns out, all he had was a bottle of orange juice. And, by the time I got there, there were no canoes available. Then it started raining. But we laughed and ran for shelter under a tree, opened—and spilled—the orange juice, laughed some more. It was shaping up to be a real Hallmark love scene when David turned to me, looked deeply into my eyes . . . (I was preparing my response—be coy? Shy? Go all in??) and said to me the words I’ll never forget: “Do you pluck your eyelashes?”
So, NOT a scene from the most romantic of all Hallmark movies. As I discovered, flipping through the pages of that journal, it was the end of the whole relationship, one I had imagined well into the future with a cozy Craftsman house in South Austin and probably a dog and our own canoe. I bring this up because just the other day at my annual eye exam, my new doctor looked deeply into my eyes and said, kind of gravely, “Do you pull your eyelashes out?”
What the hell? I guess it was somewhat reasonable that a medical professional might ask (because trichotillomania) but is it something a potential new boyfriend should inquire into? I know the answer to that one—no.
I’ve always been self-conscious about my eyelashes. Weird, right? I have so many other things to be self-conscious about—countless abnormalities and failings that, when compared to other women in my age bracket, leave me deficient—weight (too much), height (too little), lack of coordination, lack of a sense of style, lack of a super-cool writing career, etc., etc., etc. Before you all start reminding me not to compare myself to others, I will stop you—I know that. I am 65 years old, after all, and what’s the point of getting to be this old without learning a thing or two along the way. I’m getting better at accepting myself for who I am and what I do and how I do it. But the eye thing still gets to me.
One reason—and now I’m going to just go ahead and bare all my quirks—is that I often get complimented on my eyes—they’re pretty, they’re such a unique color, “great eyes!” Which I love—and accept—but I can’t understand why. My eye color is kind of interesting, but they’re surrounded by light-colored and sparse lashes. When I look at myself in the mirror, sans makeup, I look like an alien from Star Trek or a sightless creature from the Mariana Trench. So, I smear some eyeliner or other cosmetics on my eyes, so they are at least visible, but most days it’s like trying to apply mascara to a spider web. And forget about it if I’ve had a cold, allergies or have been crying—the lashes fall off like pine needles from Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.
And now, as age is crinkling the skin around my eyes, it’s even harder to try and enhance them. I often think to myself, “What’s the point? Why am I so vain about this?” So much so that a concerned comment from a doctor threw me back into an ancient dither about my looks. (God. What a women-have-to-be-perfect-men-don’t culture has done to us! Or at least me . . . ) Then, Annie lost her eyelashes during chemo when she lost the rest of her hair and who was I to complain about sparsity—of anything. Who is even looking at me and judging me by what my eyes look like. I know the answer to this one, too: no one.
I am lucky that the actual function of my eyes—seeing through them—is fine. In fact, it’s excellent. (Reported by the same new doctor.) Through my eyes, I can see my family, my friends, my work, my world.
So, what does it matter, really, what they look like on the outside?
At 81 my eyes are getting smaller!! 😳
You made my day...I love reading your posts Cindy you always make me smile
except for the fact I did not know about Annie......Please know I am thinking about you and the family now more than ever...God Cindy we go back a long way....