Have you met my grandma? If the answer is yes, then I'm about 99.8956 percent sure that you have heard the following story. If no, then please read on...
I should note that this sortid affair took place when I was at the tender age of 3, and as such, have little to no memory of its occurence. However, after hearing it more times than I have strands of hair, I think I have a pretty firm grasp on the events that transpired (I'm sure that after my grandma reads this though, I will receive her list of corrections)... But where was I..
So, apparently, 3-year-olds don't take as kindly to receiving compliments as adults. I've been told that as a youngster, I was gifted with a freakishly abundant set of dark, long eyelashes. People who met me or passed us (my grandparents and me) on the street would often stop to say how impressive they were. And, as I was being raised to become a respectful, grateful citizen, it was obligatory of me to thank them. I grew tired of this. Obviously, those lashes had to go... I awaited the moment when I could rid myself of them eagerly. I didn't have to wait long. One day, my grandma and I made a visit to her friend's house. The friend happened to be watching her grandchildren that day, and since one of them was several years my elder, they thought it would be alright to leave us alone in the living room for a few minutes while they went to discuss grown-up things. Bad move. The instant they were out of sight, I high-tailed it to the master bedroom to play with the makeup that had been calling to me from the vanity. What I found there instead was far more intriguing: cuticle scissors. You know, the type with the extremely sharp, pointy ends. I don't think I even need to tell you what happened next, but I will... Armed with my 3-year-old know-how, and "I'll show you!" attitude, I unceremoniously snipped every last eyelash down to the root, leaving my lids bald, and me utterly pleased with myself. How I managed to not stab myself in the eyeball remains a mystery. After completing my masterpiece, I emerged from the bedroom and quietly took my seat in front of the t.v. with the other children. No one noticed a thing. Success! Or so I thought. Several hours later, as my grandma sat with me at the piano (she always did this when I practiced... until I was at an older, wiser age where I could be left on my own to practice and not make banging noises on the keys with my fists), I heard a strange noise. Like the largest intake of breath EVER. Followed by my grandma clutching at her chest and babbling incoherently. I was caught.
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR EYELASHES????" (Yes, there were that many question marks at the end of her sentence).
"Cut 'em off."
"WHY???"
"I was tired of people talking about them."
And that was all I had to say about that.
Well, my eyelashes grew back. My grandma was worried that they wouldn't. I think maybe she confused cuticle scissors with laser eyelash removal. Unfortunately, they never grew back as long, or thick as they once were, maybe in protest of my carelessness with their ancestors. Or maybe I'm just getting old. Either way, I would really like to kick 3-year-old me's butt.
I just can't stay mad at that face though. It's so much cuter than mine.
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