There’s a specific kind of vulnerability that comes from lying on your back in a quiet, dimly lit room, your eyes sealed shut, while someone works meticulously on your face. You can’t check your phone. You can’t make a grocery list. You can only be. For me, this is the unexpected reality of my regular lash fill appointment. It’s less of a beauty treatment these days and more of a mandated pause button on my life.
I used to dread the time commitment. Two hours? Every two to three weeks? It felt like an extravagant waste of a precious evening. I’d schedule it for the end of the day, rushing from work, my mind still buzzing with deadlines and unanswered emails. I’d slide onto the heated bed, my body tense, already mentally composing replies while my lash artist, Mia, would gently prep my lids.
But something shifted over time. The familiar scent of the adhesive, the soft hum of the air purifier, and the faint, precise click of her tweezers became a trigger for my nervous system to finally, finally unwind. The world and its demands faded away, locked outside the salon door. In that space, there is no option but to surrender. You are forced into a state of stillness that is so rare in our modern lives. My only job is to breathe steadily and not open my eyes. It’s a bizarrely intimate trust exercise with a woman who knows the state of my lash line better than I do.
On one hand, this ritual is an undeniable luxury. The cost adds up—it’s a subscription service for my face, a recurring line item in my budget that I sometimes question. There’s a slight feeling of dependency that nags at me; the thought of my lashes without their engineered perfection can feel daunting. I’ve had to change my habits, sleeping carefully on my back and avoiding steamy showers that might compromise the bond. It’s a commitment that requires its own set of rules.
On the other hand, what I receive in return feels priceless. Those two hours of forced inactivity have become my most consistent form of meditation. My mind, after its initial frantic scramble, eventually settles. It wanders to places it doesn’t get to go during a normal day. I solve creative problems not by grinding away at them, but by letting them float freely in the quiet. I process conversations from weeks ago. Sometimes, I don’t think about anything at all. I just exist, listening to my own breath and the rhythmic work happening millimeters from my eyes.
The moment Mia says, “Okay, all done. You can open your eyes,” is always a little jarring. I blink slowly, the world coming back into a slightly sharper, more defined focus. She hands me the mirror, and I see the transformation: the gaps are filled, the shape is restored. My eyes look bright and awake again. But the real transformation is internal. The tension in my shoulders has melted. The mental static has quieted.
I leave the salon not just with beautiful lashes, but with a sense of calm I hadn’t possessed when I walked in. The lash fill is no longer just maintenance for my appearance; it’s maintenance for my mind. It’s a scheduled reminder that sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is absolutely nothing at all. And that, for me, is worth every penny and every minute.
