Mascara at 200 MPH

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Nerves of steel. I watched, entranced as my young, beautiful seatmate on a recent Amtrak trip fearlessly touched up what appeared to be already absolutely perfect makeup. A pretty blonde girl of about 25, tallish, wearing her generation’s uniform: flawlessly fitted jeans, cool sneakers, and a status bag (in her case, a really convincing Louis Vuitton knock-off).

We said our polite hellos after she asked me if anyone was sitting there, exchanged pleasantries, and once the train got underway, she went to work. I worked a crossword puzzle and she attended to her face. This was not a calm young woman. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, her foot jiggled, and she cracked her knuckles (the full set) twice. On her, it was kind of cute.

The train was slamming along, helter-skelter, jittering and rattling when she flipped open her bag like a frontier surgeon unrolling an assortment of implements. Her first extraction was a brow pencil. Her arches done to her satisfaction, she brought forth (to my horror and amazement) a felt-tip eyeliner pen. The kind that doesn’t allow for any slips or smudges. That kind. Merciless. She placed her magnifying mirror on her lap (another circus trick—I’m not sure when she pulled that out, I was trying to look like I was doing my puzzle, not solving hers).

Concentrating, she hovered over her mirror and drew narrow black lines with confidence, even verve. Every so often, she’d stop and examine her work. Apparently satisfied, she put the eyeliner away and drew out a tiny eyelash curler. They’re scary enough to use in your rock-steady bathroom, but on a moving TRAIN? I cringed, waiting for the inevitable disaster. Nothing. She tortured her lashes into wide-eyed alertness.

At this point, I stopped pretending to do my puzzle and frankly watched in undisguised admiration.

When she brought out the mascara, I nearly applauded. To my surprise (and a touch of pride), I saw the mascara she trusted for this feat was MINE! Plain ol’ drugstore L’Oreal Voluminous. The Wonder Bread of mascaras. Inexpensive and reliable. May I mention her lashes were so beautiful, I was initially convinced they were false. Nevertheless, this brave girl decided they weren’t quite the thing yet.

We were jouncing over a particularly rough patch of track when she unscrewed the mascara wand. Like the nervous observer of a rooftop jumper, I nearly screamed, “DON’T DO IT!” Once, twice, three times she nearly uncapped the tube, but each time, a rattling bounce reminded her that patience was a virtue, and no amount of mascara can compensate for a poked-out eye. I held my breath each time she unscrewed the cap, but even courage like hers has its limits.

We must have been nearly at her station and she sensed it was now or never because, cracking her knuckles in anticipation, she crouched over her mirror, drew out the wand, and started layering her lashes with a vengeance. Her replenishing action was swift and practiced—a decisive plunge in and out. Then a death-defying coat on ONE set of lashes. Another plunge, the same comically sucking sound (the one you hear when Bugs Bunny kisses the top of Elmer Fudd’s bald head), and the other eye was adorned.

I counted, spellbound. She plunged that wand into the tube fourteen times (seven for each eye). Now, my personal best, even when I was young and monkeying around with pine green mascara and burgundy and the like, was three coats on each eye. Certainly never seven. And never, ever so rapidly and with such decision and abandon. After each coat, she’d lean back, inspect the results, then plunge in the wand and go at those poor defenseless eyes again.

Like watching a documentary on Cleopatra’s arcane beautification rituals. All on a speeding train in an unforgiving urban track. Utterly mesmerizing. When she was done, her foot was jiggling much faster. That’s when I sensed all this reckless preparation involved something more than a girls-night-out. I suspected a date…maybe a first date? Whatever the case, she was ready. And, unlike many of her peers who go forth in pajama bottoms and a rock concert tee-shirt, she looked like she cared about the impression she made.

“I was worried you were going to poke your eye out,” I told her when the train lurched and squealed and clanked to a stop.

She shot me a very sweet smile as she sorted her makeup back into her faux Vuitton bag and slipped into a very pretty raincoat. “That’s why I waited for it to slow down,” she said, shifting her gaze out the window, looking for someone I hoped was worth her. “I was a little worried, too.”

I can guess what you’re thinking. But, Marline, I’m older. I don’t really need to do this anymore. I live alone. My husband doesn’t care (I bet he does). Nobody notices. I’ll feel silly (or worse, ridiculous) at my age, etc. Well, maybe so. But I learned something on that harrowing train ride about self-respect and optimism. Beauty takes courage and a belief that you can (and should) make yourself as pretty as possible, whenever possible. You might just bump into your future.

The next time you see me, be prepared to be wowed by my eyelashes.

We are God’s handiwork. Ephesians 2:10