The Tale of the Unfortunate Eyelash

Yesterday, I went to Starbucks to meet with a friend over a good cup of joe. Living in a family with only one car, I had to tag along with my younger brother, who was headed to our church - located next to the Starbucks - to practice his music. I packed my trusty coffee mug, as a good environmentalist should, and headed off to get my coffee that has been transported thousands of miles to my hometown in Canada.

Unfortunately for me, my brother Myles had to be at the church for 8 am, an hour ahead of my coffee date. I am not an early bird in general, so I ended up waking up later than I should have - approximately 15 minutes before leaving - and didn't have time to put on my make-up. Seeing as I have blonde hair, and my eyelashes have also decided to take on that rather transparent colour, I grabbed my make-up bag before leaving the house, deciding to admit my vanity and put it on the restroom at Starbucks. This is where calamity ensued.

Opening the door to the Starbucks, I glanced around quickly. 3 people and 2 baristas - thank goodness that most of the world also finds 8 am horrendously early. I could easily pass these people without them being scared away by my blonde-eyelashes. I quickly walked to the restroom.

Mirror - I carefully put on my eye shadow, eye liner, and mascara. I usually just put this on the top, but I was feeling particularly spicy and decided to put some on the bottom too. Perfect. I packed up my make-up bag, stuffed it back into my purse, and walked out the bathroom door.

Then it hit.

As I walked towards the counter, I felt a sharp pain in my eye that started to make my eyes water. "It's nothing," I thought to myself. I walked to the counter and ordered a coffee, two creams, two sweeteners - trying to keep things on the light side. As the barista turns her back to me, I realize that this sharp pain is, very likely, a rather unfortunate eyelash that has fallen into my eye. Suddenly, my eyes are watering, and tears are a-flowing like no other down my face. This was a bad day for mascara on my bottom lashes.

I realize that if the barista turns around, she will come to the conclusion that either: a) I have just gone through a harsh breakup, and am uncontrollably crying; b) I have stubbed my toe on the edge of the counter and am crying in pain, or c) I am so happy that I am able to have coffee that I am crying tears of joy. As none of the above ends up being true, I quickly tell her that I think I have something in my eye.

She turns around and looks like she's about to crack up in giggles. "Oh! I think I see that eyelash - just rub that eye a bit. There.... almost got it... okay, you're good."

I wondered what I looked like, and realized that this moment was much more embarrassing that any possible embarrassment would have been with my ever-so-blonde lashes without mascara. I pay, grab my coffee, and excuse myself to the restroom.

Oh bother. Upon first glances in the mirror, it looks as if I have undergone a huge fail of a face painting endeavour. My cheeks are nearly completely black from my mascara runs. These were not faint, watered-down black streaks, but nearly opaque, black streaks down my face. I suddenly felt as if my vanity was painted on my face to the world. How I wished for those blonde eyelashes now.

I washed my entire face with cold water. Off with all eye make-up, face make-up. Everything. If I learned one thing, it was that I should be happy with who I am 'oh natural.' So I put on some mascara. I wish I was kidding, but this is the truth. I went much lighter with the mascara this time though. One brush on the top, no eye shadow, and I was done. If I cried again, the black would, at the very least, not be opaque. Just a faint little run of black, and likely only around the top of my eye lids.

And such was the tale of the unfortunate eyelash. Curiously enough, I learned later that in my quest to be an environmentalist with my reusable mug, I failed to notice that the lid was broken and leaked. So I soon ended up with a puddle of coffee all over the book I was reading, and on my new shirt. I raced to grab the serviettes, and quickly wiped myself and the book off. No stains. Just the addicting smell of coffee all over my book - did I mention it was my bible?

Now, whenever I read the word of God, it will remind me of my encounter with vanity and with false environmentalism. And perhaps stir up my caffeine cravings.

Just another Sunday morning.