It was 7:42 PM on a first date, and I felt my left lash start to peel at the inner corner. By 8:05 I was angling my face away from the candlelight, hoping he wouldn't notice. By dessert, I was holding my eyelash in my hand under the table. I smiled through it. I laughed through it. But I never saw him again. Not because of the lash — because the second it started failing, I stopped being present. I became a woman monitoring her own face instead of enjoying her evening.