My Big Fat Low-Fat Wedding (22 page)

“So you’ve never had falsies before?”

Falsies? “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, don’t worry, it only stings for a short while.

It stings? Shit. I suddenly find myself having second thoughts about this entire process. But no, I must sit and bear it if I’m going to make my eyes beautiful for my wedding day. Besides, a bit of pain will help me to further take my mind off the stupid newspaper troll comments.

“Just relax and close your eyes.” Stacy instructs me to lie back in the chair. I’m a bit nervous as my eyelids flutter shut. “Here’s a tissue, just in case.”

Just in case what? I feel her stuff a tissue into my hand that’s resting atop my belly.

Stacy begins the lash lengthening process. It feels like she’s barely touching my lashes. This doesn’t hurt at all, it actually tickles.

“Whatever you do, don’t squeeze your eyes shut when it starts to—”

“Stings!” I squeal over Stacy’s words. “It stiiiiiiiiiiings!” The liquid lash adhesive has gotten into my eyes. What if my lids get glued together? Gripping the chair arms in a vice like grip with my fingers, I breathe in making hissing sounds through my teeth.

“Use the tissue, Emily. Your eyes are tearing up a bit.”

A bit? The copious amounts of water leaking from my eyes isn’t just a bit. I’m positively weeping because this process hurts so much.

“You know what they say.” Stacy giggles. She actually giggles and has no concern for my pain. “No pain, no gain!”

I’m not even sure if the girl is referring to the torture she’d inflicted upon my scalp yesterday, or if she’s already forgotten that and doesn’t give two hoots of an owl about how much agony she’s causing my eyeballs today!

At what the cost of beauty? Dammit! Why does fifteenth century prose always chose the most inopportune moments to sail through my distressed thoughts? Maybe it’s a subconscious calming method. I’ve got no choice but to sit here and deal with the stinging sensations that are exploding my eyes.

“It will all be worth it in the end, right?” I shout this a bit too loudly.

“Worth what? Ohhhhhhhh… it does sting a bit, but the glue is saline soluble, Emily. There’s really no need to panic.”

No need to panic? Maybe Stacy should be the one sitting here while I pour what feels like boiling hot nail varnish remover into her eyes. Then we’d see who likes being told not to panic. It’s taking all of my will power not to squeeze my eyes shut. Outwardly, to any patrons and hairstylists in this salon, I look the picture of calm as I lie here with my eyes closed. I just keep swiping tears off my cheeks with my trusty tissue. Inside though, I’m a mess of pain.

“Finished!”

What a lovely word Stacy has just uttered. I don’t think I could have stood another second of such torture. I blink open my eyes to a scene of pure blur that’s overshadowed by darkness.

Oh. That must be the false lashes hanging over my top lids like a dark cloud. Wow, I really hadn’t expected them to be so thick.

“What do you think?” Stacy swaps my sodden tissue for a hand mirror so I can have a closer look.

“Oh my.” I gasp in surprise. “They really do look lovely.” I’m not even wearing any makeup and my new thick lashes make me look like a glamour model.

“Don’t they just?” Stacy smiles and squeals. “Well worth the pain, innit?”

I have to agree with her. Besides, it didn’t really sting that much. “Forgive me, Stacy. I’m such a drama queen sometimes.”

“Well you get fifty per cent off your next lash extension visit—”

“No!” I cry out before she can finish telling me about her offer. “I mean, no… sorry. I won’t be needing big eyelashes after my wedding.” On second afterthought, that whole process really did sting.

When my vision clears I can finally head out of the salon. I don’t see Tina at all before I leave. I assume she’s off somewhere with that bloody robot. Doing what, I have no idea. Combined with hers’ and Paige’s weirdness about their bots though, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover the two ladies were becoming oddly attached to their mechanical helpers.

As I walk along the pavement I’m careful to take things slow. I have to. There’s still a dark presence above my field of vision. Maybe I should have asked Stacy not to make my false lashes so thick. I really am struggling to see under the dark shadow of fake hairs on my eyelid. When I sit down in my car, it’s even worse. I’m simply not going to be able to see well enough to drive home. Unless…

I open my eyelids hugely.

“Oh my.”

That’s brightened up my world. The dark mass of false lashes lifts away from my vision. I can see again. It’s only when our sight is obstructed that we don’t realise how much there is to see all around! I feel like a woman renewed. To hell with those bloody internet trolls. A beautifying salon visit is just what I’d needed.

Glancing in the rear view mirror I’m pleased at the way my eyelashes look. They’re pretty when I’m not bulging my eyes trying to see. I’m going to have to drive home like this though. I just hope I don’t crash. It does take a bit longer to blink with my eyes wide open.

***

At home I land on the couch and flick on the telly. Daytime TV is so abysmal I find myself dozing within minutes.

“Ack!” I scream and sit straight up. “I’m blind!”

Oh no. Patting my face with my hands, things are worse than I thought. My eyelids are glued shut from the stupid false lashes I’d had attached!

“Bollocks,” I hiss and tumble off the sofa. After crawling into the loo, I carefully get to my feet and lean on the sink. With just as careful fingers, I manage to pry apart my glued shut lids. When I look into the mirror I’m horrified to find two squashed spiders living just below my eyebrows.

The false lashes had become smashed during my nap.

“Oh hideousness,” I whimper as my bottom lip trembles with involuntary sadness. Nothing ever goes right for me. My once gorgeous eyes now look ridiculous. I’ve got to get these things off, but they’re semi-permanent, so I have no idea how I’m supposed to remove them.

As I leave the cloakroom I’m tempted to get back down onto all fours, I can barely see through the pile of false lashes that is my eyes.

I make it to the kitchen countertop and climb onto the high stool. Picking up my iPad I Google how best to remove lash adhesive with minimal damage. Reading through eyelids that are mostly stuck shut I discover that apparently the answer to my false lash problem is olive oil.

Quickly, I grab a glass bottle of Extra Virgin from the cupboards. It’s a good thing I just so happen to love olive oil. It tastes great and has so many other useful applications. Feeling my way blurrily —through stuck shut eyelids— I head towards the loo. I drip olive oil onto tissue and start rubbing it into the stupid smashed lashes on my lids.

“Oh my god it’s working!” I’m so pleased to be able to see clearly again, I have to cry out loud. I can finally open my eyes.

Glancing in the mirror I’m now shocked to realise that my semi-permanent lashes now look like spiders after they’ve been stepped on. It’s as though I’ve got insect legs sticking out at all angles atop each of my lids.

“Bugger this.” It’s not a good look.

I dab more olive oil onto yet more tissue. I have to rub with a gentle pinching motion at each individual clump of false lashes. They slide off easily enough, but I’m left with such sparse real lashes afterwards, I’m wondering if I’ll need new semi-permanent lash replacements after all.

“Bollocks to that!” What am I thinking? After this eyelid fiasco there’s no way I’m ever getting such ludicrous extensions again!

“Emily, are you here?”

Oh bloody hell, what’s Brenda doing here? Blinking rapidly I glance into the mirror. My reflection shows a woman with greasy eyes and no more glamour lashes.

“There you are.” Brenda pokes her head round the loo doorway. She frowns when she sees the bottle of olive oil that’s perched near the basin. When she glances up at my face and notices my shiny eye sockets, I’m wondering what could possibly be going through her mind.

“I had to remove my false lashes, Brenda.”

“Oh, I see.” She crooks one eyebrow upwards. “Why on earth would you have had those things stuck on in the first place?” With a nonchalant wave of hand she swishes off into the kitchen. I follow her, bottle of olive oil in hand and wads of tissues in the other. I’ve got to bin this bog roll straight away. I wouldn’t want Callum to come home and find them sitting by the cloakroom sink. He might think I spend my days off work sitting at home pulling off spider legs and frying them up with olive oil. He knows I’m a chef, but insect cuisine might be pushing it in the quest for new seasoning ideas.

“I’ve got great news!” Brenda boasts. “Thomas is no longer employed at the Meli Spa, so your workouts there won’t be pestered in the slightest.”

I harrumph loudly. “Did the boy get fired for stalking blonde women?”

“No, dear.” Brenda admonishes me. “He did get sacked though, he didn’t just quit. He wasn’t turning up for his lifeguard shifts, and I know how you’ve been panicked that the boy’s obsessed with you.”

Does she think Thomas’s stalkery of me is just in my imagination?

“Either way, you don’t have to worry about him. So come on.” Brenda crooks her hand through my elbow. “I’ve got a new exercise-ball class that I think you’ll gain loads from. Or should I say lose loads?” She makes a point of directing her gaze to my hips. “Yep, this class is exactly what you need for those child-bearing sized hips of yours!”

Gritting my teeth, I ignore her insults. After all, she’s probably right. I’ll take any chance at working out that I can get. My wedding day is fast approaching and I don’t want anyone to think I’m getting ready to give birth when walking down the aisle. Just because I’ve got shapely hips doesn’t mean there’s already a bun in my oven.

When we arrive at the Meli Spa the first thing I can’t help noticing is that Kirsten is here in the large gym. What’s also here is her boombox bot. That is, her robot is by her side until she spots me.

“Well done, everyone” Kirsten screeches at all the ladies in her Zumba class. She claps her hands together once and I’m assuming she’s just finished instructing a session.

I’m about to complain about her presence of robot, when suddenly I don’t have to. Without glancing my way a second time, Kirsten grabs her gym bag off the floor, pushes her boombox bot away, and heads out of the workout room through the rear exit.

Well, that was strange. She’s the third person to get rid of their robots in my presence. What happened to everyone being so psyched about their amazing robots? I don’t know, and I don’t bloody well care. As long as they’re all keeping those malfunctioning contraptions away from me, I’m perfectly content.

Sweaty ladies wearing baggy gangster style street-dance ensembles, exit the gym. A new batch of fresh-faced and dry women wearing tight spandex enter the workout room about five minutes later. Brenda heads to the front of the gym and turns on the main music system that reverberates techno dance tunes on low volume throughout.

“All right everyone!” She says bouncily while bouncing up and down on her trainer clad heels. For a sixty year old woman, her spandex clothes and buff outer appearance certainly belays any signs of aging within. “Thank you for joining me for my first exercise-ball class. We can all get started with warm ups on the balls!”

Warm ups on balls? My wayward mind strays to dodgy thoughts that have nothing to do with regular aerobics and more to do with sexual exercises that I’m sure abnormal people wouldn’t mind getting into—

“Emily!” Brenda’s shouting snaps my wandering brain back to reality. “Here you go!” She rolls a ma-hoosive blue exercise ball my way. The thing bounces over floor mats before I bend and stop it rolling out the gym door.

“All right, everyone.” Brenda bellows. “Let’s start with some leg warm-ups. Just ease onto your balls like this.” She squats and points her rear-end at her bright pink exercise ball. The thing is probably half the size of her, but that’s only because she such a short petite woman. Her bum lands safely on the ball and she starts rocking back and forth.

She’s definitely eased onto her ball with complete success. As for me, I’m not so sure about this endeavour. I stare doubtfully at my blue exercise ball. I have my doubts about whether or not the thing can hold my weight. Everyone else in the room has bravely sat onto their balls (I don’t know why it makes me internally giggle every time I think about balls-sitting) except for one other woman and myself.