Crushed Diaries

A blog for Young Adults

Sunday, October 29, 2006

The Missing Eyelashes

Julia was one of my best friends at school before the tragedy. She wasn't at all academic, but had the most incredibly long black eyelashes, which she believed compensated for her inability to concentrate on school work. She was extremely proud of them and used to cut off the tips of her lashes every week, announcing that they would grow faster and curlier. She also used to lovingly coat them with layers of Vaseline before she went to bed each night, believing that this bizarre beauty tip would make her lashes look even more luscious than ever. Sometimes, she smeared on too much of the gluck, which gave her a curiously droopy bloodhound look, but she didn’t care. She was too skinny with blotchy freckles on her noses, and had masses of unappetising black frizzy hair, but she sincerely believed that her lashes helped make her look beautiful.

The dim girls at my school were forced to take domestic science classes, but in our first year, all the girls including the committed bluestockings were forced to participate. Julia was my cooking partner, which was unfortunate for her, as although I was in the top stream in Latin, I was an imbecile when it came to doing anything domestic. Poor Julia. During our first domestic science class, the teacher ordered us to turn on the oven and light the gas. Simple, I thought. I turned on the gas full blast, but instead of chucking a match inside, something stopped me. I took my time in sauntering across the room before asking Julia to light the oven for me.
‘Why can’t you light it yourself?’ Julia asked, absent-mindedly stroking her long lashes.
‘I’m scared. You do it,’ I answered.
Julia slowly walked over to my oven, expertly lit the gas with a match, and was rewarded by being blown across the room. Luckily, she wasn’t hurt but the way she screamed, I thought she had been seriously maimed. So did she. Her prize and joy, her precious eyelashes had been blown to smithereens. She lost them all in the blast and tragically for her, they never grew back as long as she lived. She never spoke to me again. It was just as well we were separated soon afterwards. She was doomed to domestic science hell for the rest of her school days, while I was groomed for more studious things. Whenever I did have the misfortune to bump into her in the school corridors in-between lessons, she would would automatically scream full blast at me, accusing me of trying to murder her eyelashes.

Copyright: Frances Lynn 2006


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