Dear World: Should I Get Permanent Eyeliner?

Perhaps not this dramatic. Image: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Elizabeth_Taylor_in_Cleopatra#/media/File:1963_Cleopatra_trailer_screenshot_(11).jpg">Wikimedia</a>

Perhaps not this dramatic. Image: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Elizabeth_Taylor_in_Cleopatra#/media/File:1963_Cleopatra_trailer_screenshot_(11).jpg">Wikimedia</a>

Sleepy eyes and dark circles seem to be my lot in life. It is fine, despite the misplaced sympathy. In fact, it makes me love wearing glasses even more — I can pretend they mask my droopiness.

I look tired when I stay up too late. I also look tired if I get eight hours of sleep. First day of vacation? Bags under my eyes. Last day of a cruise? Still look exhausted.

“Are you OK?” a friend will ask. “Rough night?”

I try to smile, but I’m always horrified. I thought I looked pretty good. I even did my hair.

Sleepy eyes and dark circles seem to be my lot in life. It is fine, despite the misplaced sympathy. In fact, it makes me love wearing glasses even more — I can pretend they mask my droopiness.

In high school I had a friend, Laura Bundy, who would wear eyeliner even while camping. I made fun of her. Who rolls out of a sleeping bag and squints into a tiny mirror before sitting in front of a campfire?

“It makes me look awake,” Laura told me. “When I look awake, I feel more awake.”

Seventeen-year-old me wasn’t convinced. That was a long time ago.

I work from home most of the time, so my makeup routine isn’t daily. I do wear eyeliner most of the time when I’m putting myself together. A little hint of plum along the upper lid makes my green eyes pop, and makes me feel like I’ve done something. Mascara is twice a month, same with lipstick. Post-30, I became a foundation-wearer thanks to awesome hormones and sun damage.

Putting on eyeliner takes nearly no time. But it is a step, one that requires silence and concentration. I can admit that I look better — yes, more well rested — with that little slash of crayon.

So I want to get it tattooed on my face. Wake up, roll over, look foxy. What could be better? Is that a necessity? No, and I’m not deluded enough to think I’ll be happier or wealthier or sexier with it.

But. What if I started my day feeling just a smidge more confident when I look in the mirror brushing my teeth? Wouldn’t that be great? What if people stopped worrying about the late nights I seem to be keeping?

My podiatrist has a woman who shares his office space and does permanent makeup. I laughed about the mashup at first, then became slightly obsessed. Dr. Foot must have mentioned my interest, because the aesthetician came out to talk one day after my X-ray.

“Won’t it hurt like hell?” Really, what other question could be more important?

Beauty Lady explained that there would be a numbing cream, that wine would also be provided, and that it wasn’t bad. Besides, pain thresholds vary — that’s what childbirth and two decades of migraines have taught me.

I was still unsure. The price seemed good, though — a hundred bucks an eye. It wouldn’t really be permanent, though. More like five years.

I still haven’t pulled the trigger. I’d love to have permanent eyeliner. I’m just not so sure about getting it. Frankly, the level of training involved worries me a bit. We’re talking about a needle. Near my eyeball. And that needle is not being handled by a medical doctor with oodles of training and practice and malpractice insurance.

Did I mention it involves a needle really close to my eyeball? That’s what I can’t get over.

I know people do Lasik and all that. The very idea makes my stomach turn. You know the eyeball scene in Minority Report? You may not remember it, but it is burned into my corneas and memory forever.

For now, my eyelids are naked unless I make an effort. I’m fascinated whenever I meet someone with makeup tattoos. Maybe a little too fascinated, what with my staring and scrutinizing up close. Everyone I’ve met seems happy with their procedure.

I’m going to do it. Someday. On a day when I just don’t care anymore. Or at least a day when I can come up with a better reason for inking my face than "It would look good."

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