My friend Linda sent me a with-and-without-makeup e-mail showing beautiful famous women looking like regular folk. I zoomed in to see what the trick was.
I found it: eyelashes.
In every after picture, the women had false lashes prettying them up.
I went straight to the Longs and bought a bunch.
Last night I went to a dressy deal, so I glued a pair on. I looked old. All I needed was a cheetah skin purse and some off-color foundation, and I could have passed for one of those 50-somethings in denial.
Still I’m glad I tried it, because I remembered the story about Aunt Frances.
Aunt Frances isn’t technically an aunt. She grew up with the sisters, and by the time I was born I couldn’t tell the difference. She has always been one of the aunts.
And she has always worn false lashes.
Now I got this tale third hand at least, and it seems unbelievable, but everybody says this is the way it happened — and by everybody, I mean Mom.
Aunt Frances one day grabbed the wrong tube off the counter and super-glued her lashes. Her lids sealed closed, and she couldn’t open them nohow.
She groped for the phone and rode in an ambulance to the hospital, where they had to use a razor blade to slit her lids apart.
We’re in Southern California. If I were that doctor, I would have done a no-earthquake dance, spun around and spit three times, just in case.