Not my head.
CONTINUING my efforts to be a proper girl, I decide to get falsies. I’m talking about eyelashes, of course (not being a fan of cricket ball boobies), and there’s a brow bar in the city that does everything from the Jezebel look to Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.
First, I have my eyebrows threaded, which is pretty clever, but feels like every hair in your body is being ripped out at once, from a two-inch-square patch of skin.
Then I lie flat and the beautician sets about glueing in 15 lashes per eye, which takes about forever and I’ll let you be the judge of whether I ended up with a full 15.
My head.
You wouldn’t want this job if you had anger management issues – it’s a painstaking process, all right. Eighty minutes! For my part, a combination of unexpected horizontalness and an endorphin rush from the threading has me falling into a semi-coma on the table and hallucinating like a good ’un.
I stagger back to work like a newborn, long-lashed colt and show the team what I’ve gone and done.
“What? They used your eyebrow hair for fake eyelashes?” gasps a confused Ben.
Now, on to the eyeballs themselves. I like the world blurry, but apparently that’s not the done thing when you’re learning to drive, so I finally get my eyes tested (yep, fucked), and get me some contact lenses.
Unfortunately, bringing things into focus also sharpens the effect of the head injury I got from an errant shopping trolley a few years back, which gave me double vision. Now, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I’ve got it again. You think you know where the ground is by now, but you don’t. I’m walking around like the Furry Freak Brothers, which just adds to today’s trippy feeling.
Keeper? The lenses are going to have to go, but how does one remove them without removing one’s falsies? Buggered if I know. And I’ve got a feeling I’ll have a right scare in the morning when I wake up with an eyelash spider on my pillow.
Hey man, now you're really living 
Update: They stayed in overnight! I love em!