Blow on an eyelash and make a wish, it’ll come true, says my older sister offhandedly, unaware of the effect her words have on my young impressionable mind. A hand is to my face, awe and fascination dominating my features, the thought dances in my head, like petals in the breeze. It had seemed like a likely, grand idea as a child, one anxious for an escape from the life of scraped knees and bug bites. Wishes were made upon a variety of things, shooting stars, dandelions… it was only fitting that the thin lashes, like feathers on angel wings, had fragments of some otherworldly magic.
So whenever the downy hair laced to my eyelids become eager to liberate themselves from the routine of being painted and clumped and crimped with names like Revlon and Maybelline, I make it a tendency to wish upon them. Clamping the orbs from which those eyelashes had originated, I would whisper a desire. Soft as the wind, or the flutter of a baby’s heartbeat, I purse my lips together and exhale. Usually a superficial wish along the lines of thinner thighs or straighter teeth, what they all have in common is that these wishes have a habit of never coming true.
Growing up as a vague, tragically sensitive adolescent, it was a surprise that I continued this ritual as often as brushing my hair. No matter the amount of times these wishes failed to materialize as I hoped, I never stopped believing. Though it may be similar to a damsel waiting, wallowing, and wilting in an eternal bell jar, dreaming is oxygen to lungs.
Even as eyelashes become scarce, there will always be shooting stars and dandelions to help you escape, like feathers on angel wings, they’ll build up and maybe, one day, you’ll fly away.