My Benefit Bad Gal Lash mascara is clinging to the skin below my eyes with a singular ferocity. I think. I try the moisturizer-on-a-cotton-swab trick. Nothing on the swab. So my makeup is washed off after all.
I look back at myself. My lids are distressingly sunken and an alien gray-blue underneath. I’m a melting wax-figure.
How long have I had dark circles under my eyes?
I immediately pile the mascara back on, followed by black eyeliner and shadow. My thinking is this: In an hour it’ll smudge naturally below my lash line and what are actually circles will appear to be the rumpled-European-edgy-girl look. Rather than conceal the flaw (I’m too young to conceal!), I’ll accentuate it. The just-out-of-bed smoky look will camouflage the actual need-more-sleep thing I have going by hiding it in plain sight. Like when I hide my roommate’s birthday card in the pile of bills on my desk.
To pull this off I’ll need an edgy shoe. I think oxford right away but that style doesn’t seem mysterious enough. Smudged black eyeliner belongs on people who can’t be placed, like private investigators, world travelers and musicians on tour.
I have the perfect thing. The shoe that can’t be placed. The Dingo shoe boot. It’s the drifter of my closet, not quite fitting in with the pumps or the boots, it says, “No, I’m not as tough as a cowboy boot, but you probably shouldn’t mess with me.” At least, not until I come to terms with using under-eye concealer.