Fucking Falsies

God fucking damnit. Mia pulled the false lashes off for the second time. Glue made fine stringy lines before snapping and sticking to her eyelid, mixing with mascara. She was not off to a good start. Still, at least she wasn’t in a rush. There was exactly one hour before the shoot and an Uber to pick her drinking ass up. She had danced this tango before and knew it was a swirling dervish of long and immense suffering. Mia’s fingers picked at her eyelid and came away with what looked like gray boogers. She wiped them on her sweatpants and thought, Gross. This shit was ridiculous. But when she could blink and cause a hurricane, it would all be worth it.

She grabbed the green Rolling Rock, took a swig of flat beer, and cringed. How long had she been getting ready? Scrubbing, tweezing, combing. She killed the beer and burped, smiling at the ugly half-glamour of it all; smooth, hairless legs covered in bulky sweats, cherry red lips dipped in beer, and a beautifully curved, Marilyn Monroe inspired eyelash…basically attached to her fucking eyebrow. She inhaled deeply through her nose and set her mouth in a straight line. Time to get serious.

Mia prepped the glue and got into position, falsies poised right above her own stubby lashes. Steady, she commanded her slightly trembling hands. Steady. But the very moment she set it down, a tremor struck. What in the actual fuck?! Mia’s mind screamed as her hand twitched and secured the lash roughly half an inch too high and slanted, no less. She flared her nostrils like a bull and growled. Her cat, Margaret, who had been sitting quietly by her feet looked up unimpressed and mildly disappointed before sauntering away. Judgmental turd. Mia stood and got another beer, enjoying the crack and hiss of the tab being pulled back before taking a gulp. Just ignore her. Again she prepped the lash, eyeball beginning to burn slightly and redden. And again she fumbled at the finish line.

This time she did swear, loudly. “Shit balls! Are you freaking kidding me right now? ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!” But the universe wasn’t kidding, and the only joke here was Mia’s jacked-up falsies. It would be another two beers, one full-blown tantrum, and two more attempts before any eye-fluttering hurricanes occurred. But applying falsies isn’t for the weak. It’s for the determined. And as Mia gazed at her reflection before doing the very careful walk of the only slightly drunk out to the awaiting Uber, she was proud: proud her iron will hadn’t failed her, proud that her new lashes were even and secure, and proud that they could easily provide shelter from the rain to at least three kittens if need be. The last few hours were behind her and she emerged soft, sparkly, and totally transformed from the screaming banshee she had been just twenty minutes ago. And so with a wink to herself, Mia laughed out the door while Margaret rolled her eyes and stepped carefully over empty cans.

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