I remember the first time I really looked at my face after a week of a bad head cold. You know the one—tissue-reddened nose, pale skin, and eyes that just seemed to vanish into a puffy, exhausted landscape. I was staring into the mirror, trying to remember what my “awake” and “bright” face even looked like, and I felt… blah. It was in that moment of minor existential blah-ness that a notification popped up on my phone: a reminder for my long-overdue lash fill.
It felt like kismet. A sign from the universe, or at the very least, from my past self who knew future me would need a pick-me-up.
Walking into the studio, the familiar scent of lash adhesive—that faint, clinical smell—was weirdly comforting. My lash artist, Sarah, took one look at me and laughed softly. “Rough week?” she asked, and I just nodded, sinking into the heated bed. As she got to work, her tools precise and gentle, my mind drifted to the journey I’ve had with lash extensions. It’s been a long-term relationship, and like any good relationship, it’s complicated, filled with immense highs and a few frustrating lows.
On one hand, the transformation is nothing short of magical. Waking up and looking in the mirror to see a frame already around my eyes feels like a tiny daily victory. There’s a specific kind of confidence that comes from it. I can run to the grocery store with no makeup and still feel put together. I can cry at a sappy movie and know (well, mostly know) that my lashes will survive the emotional torrent. We’ve experimented over the years, moving from a bold, dramatic cat-eye style that made me feel like a 1960s screen siren to a softer, more ethereal wispy set that’s just a touch more “I woke up like this.” The artistry involved in crafting these eyelash extension styles is incredible—each tiny synthetic lash placed with intention to create a specific shape and feeling.
But on the other hand, part of me feels a pang for the simplicity of before. The maintenance is real. You become acutely aware of your face in a new way. I’ve had to change how I sleep, religiously avoiding my beloved face-plant-into-the-pillow position. Showers involve a conscious effort not to let the water pressure blast my precious investments into oblivion. And the cost… oh, the cost. It’s a subscription service for your face, and letting that subscription lapse means facing the awkward, patchy “shedding” phase where you look a bit like a molting bird.
There’s a vulnerability, too, in those two hours lying there with your eyes closed. You’re forced to be still with your thoughts, listening to the soft hum of the air purifier and the faint click of the tweezers. It’s a strange form of meditation, a mandatory pause in a world that rarely stops. Sometimes it’s peaceful; other times, my to-do list runs rampant in my head, and I have to consciously tell myself to just breathe and let someone take care of me for a little while.
So, was it worth it that day? As Sarah handed me the mirror and I opened my eyes, the blah-ness of the previous week evaporated. There they were: my eyes, but the best version of them. Defined, open, and bright. The classic, natural-looking set she’d given me didn’t look like I was wearing anything at all—it just looked like I was well-rested, happy, and alive. In that moment, the expense and the maintenance felt like a fair trade for the feeling of looking in the mirror and finally recognizing myself again.
It’s a luxury, there’s no denying it. But for me, it’s not really about vanity. It’s about the quiet confidence of facing the day on your own terms, and the small, personal ritual of allowing yourself a bit of crafted beauty. It’s a choice I make, knowing full well the commitment it requires, for the simple, powerful joy of seeing a familiar sparkle looking back at me.
