Eyelash work

To anybody who complemented her on her eyelashes, she would always explain that they weren't real (as if anybody could ever doubt the origin of those yard-long blue and purple creations); she freely gave out the address of the studio where she got hers done, always adding a disclaimer: pricey lash creations came with a daily maintenance routine, which didn't prevent them from falling out like bandits. She had to sleep with a special lash-pillow every night, and sex was made complicated by two related circumstances: the tender hairs could not withstand contact with any human flesh, and any sweating ruined their texture not unlike that of the expensive sweaters. Was it worth it? She didn't doubt it. At least not out loud. One does not get her eyelashes done and then cry over it. The one immediate benefit, she felt, was having a great excuse for not wearing the ugly salad-green blouse her sister gave her for Christmas. "It simply doesn't match my lashes right now," she sighed opening and closing her eyes for better viewing. Her sister was very interested and wrote down the address of the studio.