I Survived a Lash Disaster and I’m Never Going Back

Let me begin, as all cautionary tales should, with a lie I told myself: It’ll be fine.

It was not fine.

But that’s the thing about modern femininity—we’ve been conditioned to ignore the red flags if they come with a cute logo and an Instagram page with before-and-after shots. And so, despite the psychic ache in my gut and the physical ache in my neck (slept funny, probably a metaphor), I found myself en route to a lash appointment I didn’t want to go to. This wasn’t self-care. This was self-sabotage in a cashmere hoodie.

I miss Pat BB.

Pat BB, if you’re reading this, come back. She understood me. She understood my eyes. She gave me lashes that whispered sweet nothings. They said, I read books. I make good decisions. I don’t scream in public. But Pat BB no longer works at the lash studio. She vanished like all good things do—in silence and without warning. Probably ascended to a higher plane. Or took a job at Sephora. Same thing.

Enter: Coco.

Coco, who once gave me a pedicure so traumatic I had to Google "can you get tetanus from a nail salon." Coco, who clipped my cuticles like she was cutting into brisket. Coco, who treated my toe like it owed her money. And still, still, I went back. Because, say it with me: Maybe it’s just me.

Let’s pause here and reflect on the quiet violence of that sentence. “Maybe it’s just me” is the national anthem of every woman who’s ever tried to advocate for herself and then apologized for the tone. It is the slogan of our downfall. It should be stitched onto the flag we wave when entering battle: the battle being any appointment that requires a waiver and a ring light.

Anyway. The appointment.

It began with the usual lies.

“Just lie back and relax.”
“Tell me if anything’s uncomfortable.”
“These will last at least three weeks.”

Within the first ten minutes, my left eye began staging a revolt. Something between a migraine and a nervous breakdown took root behind my brow bone. The glue fumes were conducting a TED Talk in my sinuses. I whispered, “I think I need a tissue.” Coco handed me a linty square of toilet paper. Budget spa energy. Love that for me.

Halfway through, I had to ask for a vomit bag. A vomit bag. While she was gluing what can only be described as insect legs to my lash line, my body decided to protest—quietly, of course, because even in medical distress I am Canadian.

Coco said I was “sensitive.” As if sensitivity is a flaw and not just... my body screaming in Morse code.

Three and a half hours later—because apparently time is elastic when you’re questioning all your life choices—I looked in the mirror and nearly collapsed. My lashes were straight out of a 2010 YouTube tutorial. Full glam. Vegas stripper meets angry crow. Each lash looked like it had its own opinions.

I blinked, and the room darkened. That’s how heavy they were.

My right eyeball was bloodshot like it had just come back from war. My left eye was watering in what I can only assume was sympathy. Coco, ever the optimist, called this “normal.” I, ever the liar, said, “Oh okay, I didn’t get this with Pat BB.”

She shrugged.

A shrug. A full-body punctuation mark that said, Not my problem.

It’s now been 26 hours since the Incident. I’ve spent most of that time pacing my condo like a Victorian ghost. My cats have stopped making eye contact. Every time I pass a reflective surface, I jump. I look like a tired raccoon who tried to contour. I’ve Googled “lash extension allergic reaction” so many times I’m now being served ads for steroids and eye patches.

But somewhere between the Advil and the regret, I had a breakthrough. An awakening. A spiritual unraveling, really.

Maybe this wasn’t just about lashes. Maybe this was a divine intervention. A sacred slap. The universe, sick of my wishy-washy tendencies, finally sent in the heavy artillery: eye inflammation and aesthetic humiliation.

So here’s what we’re doing going forward:

1. No More Lash Extensions. Ever.

Not even if I’m invited to the Oscars. Not even if a hot stranger says, “You’d be perfect, if your lashes were a bit fuller.” Not even if Pat BB opens a boutique in my lobby. I am done.

2. Natural Lashes Only.

We're talking castor oil, baby. Daily brushing. A ritualistic grooming routine, Victorian governess-style. “Did you wash your face?” No. But I did comb my lashes like an old woman in mourning.

3. No Mascara. No Curling.

We’re raw now. We’re feral. We’re letting our lashes live and die on their own terms.

4. Emphasis on Earrings.

We’re pivoting the beauty narrative. Statement earrings will do the talking from now on. Lashless but loud. Think Vogue Paris meets accidental agoraphobe with decision fatigue and a Pinterest board called “elevated neutrals.”

5. Trust the Gut.

If I hesitate, it’s a no. If I flinch, it’s a no. If I have to Google the technician beforehand and find a Yelp review that says “she was fine once she got her coffee,” it’s a no.

This wasn’t a lash appointment. It was a detox. An exorcism. A forced reckoning with my inability to say no until I’m blinking through pain and fury.

Let this be a lesson.

If you feel weird about something—a booking, a person, a suspiciously cheap Groupon—cancel it. Run. Throw your phone in a lake. Bake a loaf of banana bread instead. Real self-care isn’t a $140 lash lift. It’s telling yourself the truth and acting on it before your eyeball turns into a crime scene.

In conclusion: I forgive myself. But also, never again.

See you in the next chapter. Hopefully with both eyes, and at least some dignity, intact.