Beauty has a price

April 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.

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