Tuesday, April 16, 2013

The Eyelashes of Doom

This past weekend I had the honour of being in the wedding party of two of my favourite people.

It was beautiful, a fairy tale, an elegant soiree (nothing I put here is going to do it justice)...

Oh, hell, it was goddamn magazine-worthy dress, decor, and meal, yet a down-to-Earth celebration—exactly what Princess (the bride) wanted, from crystal chandeliers, swags of organza and bling, and clusters of red roses everywhere, to a late night buffet of Tim Hortons donuts and a poutine bar.

Yes, you read that correctly.

It was glorious—a fabulously classy party. With poutine.

(Princess has always been known for keeping things real with elegant style.)

In fact, I wish we could do it every weekend, because it was that much fun, except we'd all suffer burnout pretty quickly in a nanosecond ( <- that's a computer joke for Princess' new Mr... Yes, it's lame, but he's smiling, trust... though that could be because after all his grinning on Saturday night, his face just froze that way... heh).

Anyhow. Being in the wedding party, a couple of things happened...

One: I had my makeup professionally done, something that has only happened once before—at my own wedding—and two: I wore false eyelashes for the first. time. ever.

Now there's a reason I've never worn them before. Notably that my lashes aren't all that bad on their own... I have issues choosing sunglasses because my lashes occasionally brush the lenses when I'm not wearing mascara.

Yes, ladies, you have the go ahead to hate me now, but know this: I have a high tolerance for pain, and nothing crumbles me faster than a twisted lash and it happens. Often.

With great lashes comes great responsibility irritability (or something like that).

Anyhow, for a wedding it's all over the top glam for photos and video, so I had no problem conceding to wear these fabulous lashes.

In fact, I was pretty excited to see how they looked, these extra girls.

Until I looked in the mirror and choked on my tongue.

It's true. My initial reaction was, um, let's just say less than gracious. I feel pretty bad about that, because our makeup artist wasn't only extremely talented and professional, she was also really nice to hang out with while she did her thing.

So I feel like a heel. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize myself—I resembled a china doll in truth: all my pores had been air brushed away, and well, my lashes were trying to eat my face (and everyone else's, for that matter).

Beautiful yet horrifying, yes?

I wish I was kidding. I was afraid to bat my lashes too much for fear I'd fly away.

I'm not that chick who wears a lot of makeup. Way back when I used to cocktail, sure, I'd glam up the face a bit for show, and it was fun. Mind you, I was a lot younger then, and it was part and parcel of the job, and for the record, I always did feel like I was pretending to be someone I'm not.

This time, though, every glance in the mirror reminded me I was wearing someone else's face.

And while I received many compliments (thanks, folks!), and felt like Bridesmaid Barbie, and loved being blessed with the ability to share in my wonderful friend's day, every once in a while those lashes would brush against my brow line and I'd remember I resembled one of those dolls that closes her eyes automatically when you lay her down to sleep...

Yeah, because that's not a creepy thought (ha!).

So I had to take the above photo. It reminded me of something I'd seen before, but I couldn't quite figure out what... then a friend of mine nailed it.

My son.

Last year for The Mrs blog I published a photo of his drool-worthy lashes in a post about how they're his secret weapon (and how he has the cutest unibrow ever).

Can you tell we're related?

Studying this collage has made me realize I have unleashed a very real set of these lashes on the world, currently sported by an almost-six-year-old charmer.

Run, ladies. In these luscious depths I foresee the doom of mankind, one not-so-innocent bat at a time...

We're all screwed.

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