For a while, I was on a fake-eyelash kick. They look killer. You can choose from three styles: natural (people probably wouldn’t notice you have fake eyelashes at all, just that you look fucking great), glam (a little more over the top), or super glam (Kardashian). I always went for natural. They defined the shape of my eyes really well, and they replaced both mascara and eyeliner. They were good.

But they were costly and time consuming, to the tune of $100 EVERY THREE WEEKS. You could stretch it to four, and sometimes I did. But that annoyed my lash lady because there’d be so many more lashes to replace, one by one.

She was a character, my lash lady. A short, overweight woman with dark curly hair and cold hands. She smoked, which was kind of unpleasant when her fingers were so close to my nose and face.

I’d always get my lashes done early on Saturday mornings. The process typically takes just under two hours. They try to make it nice. You lie on a heated bed. There’s music playing. It’s peaceful, but you know, your eyes are taped shut. If you try to open them, you can’t. That’s an odd sensation, one that feels vaguely life threatening if you were to encounter a life threat.

Plus, there’s an intense, bright light shining right on your face so the lash person can assess what they’re doing. I’m certain that from the outside, the whole thing looks like interrogation.

That was all fine with me until one day, several months into my relationship with fake lashes, something strange happened during my appointment. I fucking flipped out. First, I started blinking uncontrollably—as much as one can blink with their eyes taped shut—and my lash lady asked if I was ok. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so. I need to sit up.”

She set down her tools and brought me a glass of water, but by then I was in the throes of a classic panic attack: heart racing, palms cold and sweating, short of breath, sure of impending heart attack/death/doom. I did what I know you’re supposed to do. I placed my hands on my stomach and focused on breathing. In, out, all that. It kind of worked, but I couldn’t finish the appointment.

From that point on, my lash appointments just weren’t the same. I never experienced another full-blown attack, but there were a couple of mini ones—and perhaps worse, always the fear that another big one would strike. You never expect them, you know? They come from nowhere, and as I learned, are made worse with taped-shut eyes and a bright light.

Ultimately, I gave up fake lashes, pretty much only because the appointments made me freak out. I don’t know what changed—why for months I was fine, and suddenly I wasn’t.

I’ve returned to my trusty Maybelline mascara. I miss the look of fake lashes. I don’t miss spending that much money that often. I don’t miss waking up early some Saturdays just for the sake of vanity. And I absolutely don’t miss lying still for two hours, wondering if a panic attack was about to pounce.