I’d barely thought about my eyelashes at all. Which is odd, really, considering I feel like in my four decades of existence I’ve thought about most things at least twice, matters of my body and self many many more, and more again at night. No, I’d taken these hairs for granted, that they would remain, protect, flap prissily around in their little mascara dressing gowns until, one day last month, I received an email about an eyelash serum.
Eyelash serum. It’s one of those things that just appeared fully formed in the mid-2000s, a mushroom that grew overnight. It was not there; our eyelashes grew without it. It became; our eyelashes required feeding at the roots. A withering cynic at the best of times, I had paid no attention. This was the era of the maxi-lash, extensions that ranged from Bambi to shelf-like, the size of black canapés or iPhones – the eyelash industry was worth over $1.5bn. I did take part, briefly. When I tried fake lashes I found the process tedious and the experience disturbing, my eyes heavy as if counting down an anaesthetic, so I’d sworn off the whole eyelash project, content with my lot. But when I received the serum email, I looked in the mirror, half-interested again, and good God. Good. God. Looking at the sparse field where great vines once grew, I felt first, horror, then a shiver of excitement. A project. I bought the serum.
