Every Saturday night, it's the same: I leave my apartment looking like the Paris Hilton mug shot (glamorous, pulled-together), trudge home post-bar at 4AM looking like the Mischa Barton (rough, bleary), and awake Sunday as the Nick Nolte. Worse still are the nights I do the Nick Nolte without washing my face: Dangly earrings still in, mascara and eyeliner smudged everywhere—it's very Buffalo Bill in The Silence of the Lambs in his underground chamber vamping to "Goodbye Horses" in a kimono. My special hangover bathrobe exacerbates the effect.
But last Saturday I spent the afternoon in the basement of Barney's New York getting lash extensions—painstakingly, one by one—from Shu Uemura lash guru Soul Lee. It took two hours, but I left with crazy-long, glossy black lashes and the fixed-but-pleasant wide-eyedness of a Bambi or a Simpson sister.
The next morning, after a particularly punishing night on the town, I looked in the mirror. Though the hair was still totally Nolte, the face was not only mascara-free (you don't need it with extensions) but bizarrely bright-eyed, alert, ready to face the world (if ordering in two bagels and watching a gymnastics meet on TV counts as facing the world).
Needless to say, I'm looking forward to the six promised weeks of this—while lash extensions are not inexpensive, I say they're well worth it for the willfully sleep-deprived.
—Cat Marnell, beauty assistant
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