By Special Order for Luke

I got a request today which I feel compelled to fulfill. One of the very few who regularly frequents my blog suggested that I write a piece about eyelashes.

Okay, so it's not exactly some weighty intellectual topic like politics in the Middle East or the fate of the Catholic Church under the guidance of Benedict XVI but then again, what the hell would ever give anyone the impression that I could do justice to anything like that?

So eyelashes ... hmmm ... well for starters, I am folliclely-challenged in the ocular region. Every professional makeup artist who has ever worked on me starts clucking his or her tongue when he or she surveys the goods.

My youngest son, on the other hand, has the most spectacular eyelashes. Long, thick lashes both on bottom and top that interlace and frame his eyes beautifully. When he cries, they plump up and look like luscious spiders' legs. (It's a complete mystery where he inherited this eyelash gene as no one in either family is blessed in this regard). I have to stop myself from applying mascara to his lashes. (God knows he already is at risk of developing issues since Jacqueline has been regularly painting his toenails electric blue since he was eighteen months old). It's sort of unjust -- I am not personally blessed with lush lashes like that and I also don't get the pleasure of at least playing with his because they're on the wrong sexed child.

Recently, I visited a friend's salon-spa. As I climbed the stairs to the inner sanctum of feminine beauty secrets, three women emerged from one of the rooms oohing and ahhing. The cause of their delight? A new technology which was being introduced at the spa -- semi-permanent lashes ... as seen on the celebrity stars (J. Lo, Jennifer Aniston, Beyonce Knowles and a few other chicks I've never heard of). So of course, my ears perked up. What's this, you say? I can have lashes and look like a babe, too? Where do I sign up?

One hour later, I emerged from the salon with slut length lashes. Okay, so they actually weren't that long, but to someone who has nothing, the change seemed enormous to me. I kept expecting people to pop out of nowhere screaming "fraud!"

The impact of longer, fuller eyelashes was immediately noticeable. Friends, clients, teachers, etc. would comment that I looked particularly good that day and different somehow, but they couldn't quite put their finger on what was the cause of the difference. I was reluctant to confess that I was in possession of anything less than natural, so I let them continue to stare and wonder.

I guess I have this thing about screwing around with nature. Oh, of course, like lots of women, I manipulate it to some extent. I wear makeup sometimes, I have streaks of colour in my hair and I paint my fingernails. But I guess, I see these things as being typical and widely accepted feminine rituals. Other things like silicone breast implants, hair extensions, Botox, etc. just seem beyond the pale of normal to me. I could never imagine myself partaking and indulging in these practices. Somehow, the lash addition smacked of these though.

I guess I also have issues about vanity. During my childhood, my parents would constantly reiterate that physical beauty was truly only skin deep and that pride in one's appearance was vain, superficial and therefore not a desirable quality. My mom used to point out to me that "beauty shines from within" and that my beauty lay in my intelligence, not in my face. I think this was meant to console me as it was usually said quick on the heels of her looking at me and shaking her head. (I was stuck at the awkward stage for an eternity; I can't count the amount of times my parents used to recite the tale of the Ugly Duckling to me). So by extrapolation, I guess I've concluded that time spent on personal grooming is frivolous and silly and that therefore, I shouldn't covet my son's lashes, let alone actually let someone affix semi-permanent ones to me.

I guess, the only way I justify my case and exonerate myself from the ranks of total vain bimbo is that catering to my appearance isn't the only thing in my life. In fact, it occupies only a very minute part of my daily routine. It sounds hard to believe but there are two women who are regular clients of my friend's spa and they have devoted their entire life to plastic surgery, spa treatments and clothes shopping. They are complete abstractions of reality, something you'd expect to see in a sitcom. Given the choice between taking care of their physical needs and spending time with the children, they actually choose the former. So the day I opt to abstain from some fun activity because it's bad for my fake tits or will ruin my nails, shoot me.

In the meantime, I'm going to flutter my slutty eyelashes flirtatiously and shamelessly.