Beauty has a priceApril 21, 2012
Tommy was a beautiful child. He had wavy brunette hair and long eyelashes that would be a source of envy for any woman. He was slightly on the chubby side, making it seem as though the name I called him in my toddler language was observant rather than misspoken. I called him Tubby Goco.
I couldn’t pronounce our last name and, apparently, couldn’t pronounce Tommy, either.
Grandpa John told me that he was in the car with three-year-old Tommy one day when he looked over at the passenger side of the car to see Tommy working his mouth like a fish out of water and trying, but failing, to blink. Stopping the car, Grandpa John took a closer look.
Tommy’s ultra-long eyelashes had somehow flipped into his eyes. Both upper eyelids were folded inward and upward. Tommy’s eyes were streaming tears and his mouth continued to work like a fish as Grandpa John tried to free the lashes. The lashes finally released themselves and Tommy’s tears dried up.
It sounds painful.
Each time I wished I could have dark, luxuriant lashes to replace my sparse blonde lashes, I remembered that story. As a result, I wished each time to keep the lashes I had. Beauty seemed just a bit too painful to me.