An Ode To Heather McMahan’s Remaining Eyelash

In praise of the strongest among us.

Via Heather’s Instagram, which you need to follow post-haste.

Heather McMahan, for the unenlightened, is a comedian whose humor and podcast are quite frankly holding the shards of my sanity together. Her Instagram, character portrayals, and new loaf-of-sourdough puppy are a mainstay in my daily dabble into Internet things that won’t make me shit myself, and friend—those are getting harder and harder to come by. As we’re all aware, we’re a nation of DIY-ers right now whether we enjoy pickling our own beets or not, and these isolated days (fuck me, months) are showing us just how much we rely on others for certain services. Heather McMahan is a stunning example of one’s dedication to eyelash extensions and I have been following her and the wispy hairs above her retinas very closely.

Having been confined to quarters for some weeks now, it’s not surprising that Heather’s eyelash extensions would give up and depart this world for the next. I mean I can barely get out of bed every morning we can’t realistically expect our beauty treatments to be the thing that’s in this trashfire for the long haul. From the start of quarantine until now, Heather’s eyelash supply has been depleting, and honestly, it’s been a real comfort to watch.

Evidence of aforementioned lash depletion via Heather’s Instagram.

Day by day, as my gray hairs crawl out from beneath their follicles and act like they fucking belong here, I feel less alone. Every ugly and untreated part of me emerging like that girl crawling out of a TV in The Ring brings up self consciousness I didn’t know I possessed, and without my hilarious hero, that negativity might get the better of me. But no, no—Heather’s slowly diminishing lashes dropping out of the game like petals from The Beast’s enchanted rose remind me that we’re all in this together.

Not even Heather, a professional performer and all around put-together and stunning Southern bitch, is able to bring her full beauty game to the table. I’m sitting here crying over remaining scraps of gel polish while painting an original Renaissance work I’ve dubbed The Last Manicure with my nail technician in the middle like Jesus and the only thing that stops my sobs is Heather batting what lashes she has…