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Octolashes

They sure are a bitch to apply, but everyone: the designer, the photographer, the make-up artist, even the other models have to admit tentacles are truly avant-garde.

That didn't keep them from writhing as they were glued to my eyelids. It took more adhesive than you could imagine, but it worked. They were affixed, the suction cups sounding like wet fat torn from a leather couch as they stuck to my cheeks and forehead and entangled in my hair. Not to worry. The hair stylist was on hand to make sure any strays stayed in place. "Nothing a little hairspray won't solve," he said, a sticky mist shrouding me. A sweaty assistant shoved my feet into a pair of black stilettos and took my hand. We walked to the set, me on tiptoes. The tentacles cold and slimy against my cheeks smelled of aquarium. They positioned me inside an enormous clam. The hair stylist stood by, comb ready. Someone put a giant pearl in my hands. I held it out to the flashing camera, letting it devour me over and over as the tentacles became enraged. One smacked the side of my head so hard it made my ear ring. The hair stylist spoke softly to the tentacles, calming them long enough to fix my hair. I worried we'd lose the shot if they didn't behave, but when we were finished I stared at the frames, certain that "it girls" everywhere would soon be wearing them.

They really do bring out the eyes.

Story by:

L. Soviero

1 February 2015