Lena Dunham Goes on the Ultimate Eyelash Adventure in Los Angeles
If I’ve ever recognized myself in another woman on film, it’s Georgina “Georgy” Parkin, the titular heroine of the swinging-sixties British classic Georgy Girl—a carefree but decidedly homely butler’s daughter who inadvertently entrances an eccentric millionaire with her affable charm. Lynn Redgrave is Georgy, whose layers of baby fat can’t hide a sparkling soul. But if the eyes are the windows to said soul, then the eyelashes are the flashing neon sign reminding you that the store is open for business. And Georgy has them—spiky, clumpy, eternally spidery. The film’s message appears to be that beauty lies within, but there’s another, more subtle takeaway: that eyelashes are actually capable of pulling a whole lot of weight. She’s cloying, stressed, and constantly screwing up, but when she blinks? Men become her personal assistants.
As with almost everything beauty-related, I came to this realization late. It’s not that I was unaware of the magnetism of an embellished lash, or the way it can compel a potential suitor to run into oncoming traffic. But when you’re grappling with anxiety and light depression, simply getting out of bed—and into actual pants—can feel like a heroic feat, so applying layers of Shiseido’s inky-black pigment to your lids is a nonstarter. It’s a kind of secret shame for a certain type of woman, especially when she beholds her preened counterparts, who no doubt battle their own demons behind closed doors; their particular issues just happen to enable lustrous lashes.
But last year, finding myself suddenly single and no longer freshly 30—a fact that my mother does not hesitate to point out—I no longer judged it acceptable to roll into a morning meeting bare-faced and with a Pebbles Flintstone topknot. As much as I want to say that looking captivating is not a particular concern of mine, I also want to be the kind of gal whose wide-eyed gaze gets her oat-milk latte made faster.
This is when it became about eyelashes.
I have already tackled my thinning brows in the pages of this magazine, following the trend toward a serious, semipermanent arch with two sessions of microblading. The compliments were straightforward—“OMG brows!!!”—and, frankly, addictive. Instagram has made beauty aficionados of us all, though, and these days, every scroll seems to reveal yet another teen titan with lid fringe long enough to reach out from my iPhone screen and poke me in the pupil. Which is to say: Lashes are now on fleek.
Having heard a rumor from my longtime TV makeup artist, Patricia Regan, that a popular lash serum had caused one errant hair to grow under the skin of her eyelid, necessitating a radical dissection, I was scared of growth potions and the possibility of living this outtake from a Ridley Scott film. But thanks to millennials, who are used to spending hours on twelve-step contouring and highlighting routines, there is a wave of new, streamlined, long-lasting solutions to lengthening, darkening, and thickening that seemed poised to solve my problem.
Following the trail of hashtags for #lashes #lashlift and #lashperm, I arrived at Beverly Hills Lashes for a Lift and Tint. First came the before pictures, as brightly lit and perfunctory as a mug shot. Then my aesthetician, Jay, laid me down on a table to perform a 45-minute “perm,” in which he slicked a chemical solvent across my upper eyelids, curling my natural lashes at the root before tinting them with a vegetable-based dye. The process made checking social media all but impossible and doubled as a sort of forced meditation retreat.
After enduring a series of totally tolerable burning sensations, I was warned not to expose myself to any kind of steam for 48 hours, lest I uncurl the curl that was in process. Then I was upsold some SugarBearHair vitamins (they knew their audience). When I emerged, Jay actually gasped at the beauty of his own work. His eyes widened: “Wow. Have you ever noticed that your eyes are amber?”
I hadn’t noticed. Not until now.
I sat through my follow-up photos in a daze. It wasn’t just that my lashes were impossibly full and vibrant. Somehow, this Lift and Tint accented every flirty feature of my face: freckles, button nose, rosebud lips. I was, quite simply, entrancing to myself.
And to others. People erroneously commented on my glowing health (nope, sinus infection); on my weight loss (up ten pounds!); and on my new haircut (same broken bangs, thank you very much). I took a red-eye and looked awake. I wore workout clothes, sans workout, and seemed like I’d tried. I had never felt such immediate results from such a small action, and I’m including both apologizing and taking Ecstasy in this tally. Like an insatiable addict going against her better judgment, I tried a few mascaras over top: the classic Maybelline Great Lash; an electric blue by Il Makiage. I liked the just-showered-when-you-actually-haven’t effect of Glossier’s Lash Slick.
I was high on the attention and yet tortured by one small but terrifying detail: I could feel my eyelashes tickling my brow. This may seem like a small price to pay for stunning, universal beauty, but to a person who enjoys, say, blinking it was just too much. I sat in a steamy shower to loosen them. I brushed them out. Much like Liza Minnelli’s spirit, they could not, and would not, be stopped. So I relented, tracking favorable reactions to my smile in coffee shops. During sex, as I felt them brush against my partner’s cheek, I was sure he found me to be the stuff of fantasy made real.
Two weeks later, even though the perm had not yet worn off, I was back in Beverly Hills, this time getting synthetic mink extensions glued to my lash line in a bid for world domination. I told my delightful technician, Gloria, to “go all in,” like I was Michelle Visage hosting The RuPaul Show. (When you’re indulging in artifice as extreme as adhering another animal’s hair—synthetic or otherwise—onto your own for a fanlike effect that can last for up to eight weeks, there is no reason to hold back.) That level of drama would take about two hours, Gloria explained, but as I had a therapy session to get to, we agreed on a shorter, 45-minute service, during which she focused on my outer eye for a “deerlike” look. When we finished, I regarded myself with some measure of awe and was off to purge my dark heart. In paparazzi pictures from that night, I am alone—but beaming.
Ultimately my greed was my downfall. Expecting double the pleasure from double the lash, I used a Too Faced purple mascara and a classic Shu Uemura curler on my extensions, which you’re definitely not supposed to do for fear of upsetting the lash glue. When people didn’t outwardly notice, I demanded comment. I was savage.
Finally, my friend Mary responded honestly to an unsolicited selfie I had sent: “I find you so beautiful, but you look frightful with those lashes.”
Shame burned at my core. I had flown too close to the sun, and my lashes were the first thing to get singed. I wanted them off, and now. Gloria had told me to return in three to four weeks for a top-up, and under no circumstances was I to “self-remove,” an action that could result in damage to my natural lashes (ordinarily, lash-extension removal is done with a glue-dissolving solution, administered in a setting significantly more professional than my own bathroom). But no circumstances were these circumstances. I made a tiny tray out of my hand and pulled my lashes out one by one, dropping them in a pile. They sat like dead ants after a poisoned picnic, and what remained on my face was a scrambled mess. “LOL,” my friend SiSi responded when I sent her an image of the aftermath. “They look crazy!”
They felt crazy, too. Itchy and like they were growing in seventeen different directions. Deflated, our adventure was done.
The experience left me feeling self-righteous, indignant, and exhausted, which gets to the heart of my entire conflict with beauty, where a line of self-questioning often thrives: As a woman trying to embrace the complexity of her own identity, when am I empowering myself through consumption, and when am I succumbing to the industrialization of my own face? Does the distinction even matter? Are my eyelashes the latest manifestation of a capitalist agenda? And why are our romantic partners so lathered up about the hairs that sprout from our eyeball area?
When I woke up the morning after I had ripped out all of my fake lashes (and some of my real ones), I was surprised by how naked I felt, how out of touch I had become with my own basic “gist.” As I readjusted to my now-bare face in bed with my newish paramour, the one I assumed loved my lashes, he turned to me and said, “You look pretty. Should I get you a coffee?”
I had become Georgy Girl. I was a star despite myself. Men did things for me now.
Below, five salons to take your lashes to new heights:
Beverly Hills Lashes
872 Huntley Dr.
West Hollywood, CA 90069
beverlyhillslashes.com
Envious Lashes
303 Fifth Ave., Suite 1907
New York, NY 10016
enviouslashes.com
The Lash Lounge
11661 Preston Rd., Suite 119
Dallas, TX 75230
thelashlounge.com
Lashme
1657 N. Miami Ave.
Miami, FL 33136
lashmelashes.com
Lash L’Amour
129 Newbury St.
Boston, MA 02116
lashlamour.com
Liberté Beauty
1737 NW 56th St., Suite 101
Seattle, WA 98107
libertebeauty.com
Watch Lena Dunham Test Drive the Brow Microblading Trend:
