There was a period, before "Kardashian excellence" was a family term or YouTube instructional exercises educated our advanced cosmetics methods, that I wore bogus eyelashes throughout the day, consistently. I was going for a kind of French-New-Wave-meets-Japanese-anime look, and sticking wispy drugstore strips onto my upper tops turned into a prework, pre-party custom that offered moment satisfaction. I felt progressively spectacular and lovable, similar to the highlights occupying my round face were sketched out and underlined like those of an adorable animation. In the long run, however, the substantial caterpillar adaptations squinting on the challengers of The Bachelor, combined with the ascent of extraordinary semipermanent expansions, made me reconsider my relationship with falsies. Also, wearing them and imprudently stripping them off before bed every day was making my common set shed away to a ultrafine periphery.