My laugh for the morning

I don't always wear makeup. And since my skin decided to stop the post-college crisis that consumed much of 2001-2005, I found it even less necessary to slather foundation all over my face. (Note: I am glad, however, that this facial crisis decided to hold off until after high school. Because really, the braces and the bad curly bangs and the high-rise CK jeans from Costco were bad enough.)

An important exception to the I Can't Be Bothered about Makeup rule occurred whenever I flew home to AK. I spent the "initial descent" period hastily applying whatever I'd stashed in my bag, so that my mother would be pleased when she saw me at the airport. I'm sure the results of my in-flight artistry were not the best, as I was generally so strung out from finals and lack of sleep that I couldn't even hold my hand steady. Or see clearly through the eye twitches. But that's just what you do to make your mom happy. For my dad, it was two boxes of Kristy Kreme donuts which you had to guard with your life the entire plane ride or you got left at the Anchorage airport with all the stuffed polar bears.

Anyway. Point. I put on makeup this morning. As I did so I glanced over at my roommate's Chi flatiron, residing on the bathroom sink. For the first time I noticed a large white tag affixed to the cord with a drawing of a human eye and text that read "Will Burn Eyes". Because I guess some people thought that even though those hot slabs of metal can singe the flesh right off your finger and leave you with a blackened, smoking stump, it still might make for an amazing eyelash curler.

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