So she hit the drugstore. Bought three different lash styles in the $10 bin. Every pair gave her the same hello: a stiff band that dug into her inner corner like a papercut. She'd sit there with tiny kitchen scissors, trying to trim the length down to fit her small eyes, but they ended up lopsided—one side would still stab her all through lunch. After about forty-five minutes of her struggling, she'd either look exhausted or look like her eye was being pinched shut.
Then she went online and ordered lashes specifically made for monolids. That was a whole different heap of trouble. The band was still too long, so instead of one clean cut, she had to snip each lash into three little sections and glue them on like some puzzle. Every time she blinked, a corner peeled up and poked her skin. She spent $28 on a pack of five pairs, and by ten in the morning, she'd rip them off and throw them straight in the trash—her eyes looked even smaller than they did bare. "I've got eyes, not letters in a typewriter. Why can't anyone just make lashes that fit my face?" she says.