“What did you do to your eyes?” he asked with a frown, staring at me intently as if I were a patient with some perplexing, potentially fatal, eye condition.
“I had my eyelashes done,” I replied.
“Ah, new mascara,” he nodded. There were only three words in his full vocabulary of women’s make-up – mascara, lipstick and Neals Yard.
“Uh, more drastic. I had sixty eyelashes glued into each eyelid.”
He stared at me incredulously. “You did WHAT?”
I explained the process to him, where I sat in a beautician’s chair for an hour and she painstakingly glued 120 little hairs onto my eyelids between my weedy natural ones.
“Why?” he asked dumbly.
Well, my darling daughter did it so it was kind of a fun, mother-daughter thing to do. You know, mummy and baby walking around with American Doll fake lashes that last up to one month if we are careful not to rub our eyes.
He thought about what I had said for a moment, then burst out laughing. Grinning, he said, “You’re mad as a hatter, Jac. I will never be able to wholly understand you but I love you, woman.”
And he stood there, grinning like an idiot, shaking his head, thinking about 120 fake lashes and the weirdness of me, love evident in his eyes as he looked at my face.