Eyelash Affair circa 1962

by Jacqueline Falcomer

My earliest memories of my mother and aunts is of them taking turns sitting at the dressing table to “apply make-up” for their Saturday night date.

A glass jar of multi-sized brushes, rivaling that of a portraitist, sat in the middle of the dressing table. A shoebox filled with a myriad of lipsticks sat in the right-hand drawer.

Jet-black liquid eyeliners, brown, green and blue eye shadow containers, kohl pencils, blusher sticks, foundation skin-toned creams and tiny pencils with sharp points of white lead, filled the shoebox in the left-hand drawer.

Most curious of all, in the middle drawer, lay a pile of slim, transparent boxes containing a jaw-dropping array of eyelashes in varying lengths and thicknesses along with tiny tubes of glue and several pairs of eyelash curlers.

With her sultry coloring my mother wore her make-up following Sophia Loren’s style, including a strategically placed cheek mole. My three aunts followed the British ‘Dolly Girls’, Twiggy, Britt Ekland and Jean Shrimpton look. While the women differed in their choices, each unfailingly wore false eyelashes.

Applying false eyelashes required a steady hand. Equally important, timing was of the essence. The smear of glue dexterously applied to the lash could only be attached to the eyelid when the right stickiness was achieved. If the weather varied, so too did the timing. If applied too soon, the eyelash would slip and slide. Applied to late, the lash would not adhere to the eyelid. At the age of five (in 1962), I already knew there was nothing more embarrassing than being unaware of having lost an eyelash. Or worse, having an eyelash attach itself to the face of the man one was kissing.

After the frenzied afternoon of make-up and eyelash application, copious amounts of hairspray to teased hair, and last minute perfume spritzes, my mother and aunts, beautifully dressed, would leave with their Saturday night dates. Grandmother and I sat at the dressing table, sorted and replaced each makeup article in its correct box.

One Saturday evening my Grandmother asked, “Shall we try?”

In awe, I nodded.

“Choose which style you want.”

By the time I’d made my selection, my grandmother already sported her choice of eyelashes. Compared to her daughters, she was lightning fast. I gazed at her in the reflection of the mirror. I’d never realized just how blue her eyes really were. Moreover, she looked as glamorous as the magazine pictures of film stars my mother and aunts couldn’t get enough of.

“Your turn. Look down.”

I obeyed. Her fingers were as delicate as the lightest breeze. I didn’t feel the eyelashes on mine.

“Take a look.”

I looked up and stared at myself in the mirror. “They’re longer than a giraffe’s.”

My grandmother laughed.

Then I batted my lids as fast as possible but the lashes remained in place. They tickled.

Later, when I was ready for bed, Grandmother removed my lashes with the slightest tug. “Put yours back in its box. Here, let’s write your name on the box.”

I looked at her enquiringly.

“Remember, never wear a used pair of eyelashes.”

I nodded wisely. I’d heard my mother and aunts discuss a friend’s eye infection from just having done that. “Can we wear them again next Saturday?”

“Naturally.”

Jacqueline Falcomer | Published Author jacqueline.falcomer@gmail.com www.jacquelinefalcomer.com https://www.facebook.com/ JacquelineFalcomerAuthor/