how zayn got his eyelashes.
They took Zayn back to the house on Warwick Avenue, where Trish acted the part of demure wife when his father was home, but experimented with all kinds of little improvements as soon as he left for work. Prompted by her own mother’s superstitions, she cooked fishheads for Zayn’s eyes; blubber for his skin; marrow for his bones. Zayn, every Sunday, was laid out on a sofa cushion with mum at the head, an Auntie at the foot, and stretched so his little neck might grow long and graceful. Afterwards, alone, she would do the same thing on his upper lip, a procedure that would maximize potential for long life and happiness, even success in marriage. Though Tricia knew these views were unorthodox she had always believed luck had to be discovered, and even if it cost her money and time and drove her husband to the brink of insanity, she was determined to find it.
For a baby, Zayn bore all of these experiments with remarkable patience. He had no interest in crying, preferred studding the air with short gunfire-like bursts for diaper-changes and feeding times. Baths were tolerated very well, and he didn’t fuss when people touched him in unexpected places. After a month at home, it was only his eyelashes that he was the slightest bit cross about, and so Trish performed that stealth at night, as he slept in his crib. One morning Zayn awoke with half the length of them shorn, the modification going unnoticed by everyone except his father, who launched into a fit over breakfast.
“You cut his eyelashes?” Yaser was yelling. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, bug-eyed, as Trish poured apple juice into a bottle, checking, by stooping a little, the level against the graduated marks on the side. “When? And with what?”
“Scissors, of course.”
“Oh, hell,” he groaned.
“What? They’ll grow back twice as long and king-like.”
“You’ve gone and maimed him.”
“And you have no faith.”
“Faith is definitely not the problem here!” Yaser roared back, clutching his hair in his hands.
But by the time Zayn was thirteen, his appearance settled the argument by bearing out every one of his mother’s premonitions. Trish, who was learning Mandarin by night through a set of six books on tape, taught him the word for it-zhen xiao sa, she said, so handsome. For Zayn had grown into his brows, now thick black coal that emphasized the rare metal color of his eyes. Already taller than his father, muscled from summer sports, he’d developed a silhouette made for driving neighbourhood girls crazy. Soon, from her friend on the PTA, Tricia learned that the girls actually vied with one another to spend recess running their fingers through his hair, gazing at his eyelashes, which practically cast their own shadow over the rows of junior high lockers. She was a little appalled, as a woman, but also secretly impressed with her work.
For a baby, Zayn bore all of these experiments with remarkable patience. He had no interest in crying, preferred studding the air with short gunfire-like bursts for diaper-changes and feeding times. Baths were tolerated very well, and he didn’t fuss when people touched him in unexpected places. After a month at home, it was only his eyelashes that he was the slightest bit cross about, and so Trish performed that stealth at night, as he slept in his crib. One morning Zayn awoke with half the length of them shorn, the modification going unnoticed by everyone except his father, who launched into a fit over breakfast.
“You cut his eyelashes?” Yaser was yelling. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, bug-eyed, as Trish poured apple juice into a bottle, checking, by stooping a little, the level against the graduated marks on the side. “When? And with what?”
“Scissors, of course.”
“Oh, hell,” he groaned.
“What? They’ll grow back twice as long and king-like.”
“You’ve gone and maimed him.”
“And you have no faith.”
“Faith is definitely not the problem here!” Yaser roared back, clutching his hair in his hands.
But by the time Zayn was thirteen, his appearance settled the argument by bearing out every one of his mother’s premonitions. Trish, who was learning Mandarin by night through a set of six books on tape, taught him the word for it-zhen xiao sa, she said, so handsome. For Zayn had grown into his brows, now thick black coal that emphasized the rare metal color of his eyes. Already taller than his father, muscled from summer sports, he’d developed a silhouette made for driving neighbourhood girls crazy. Soon, from her friend on the PTA, Tricia learned that the girls actually vied with one another to spend recess running their fingers through his hair, gazing at his eyelashes, which practically cast their own shadow over the rows of junior high lockers. She was a little appalled, as a woman, but also secretly impressed with her work.