Ruth and Hannah made this life-mask of me some twenty-five years ago. They saw the idea in one of their home-school books of suggestions for family
projects. Anyway, the two of them decided that I was the
best candidate for the job of head Guinea Pig. Their idea. I wasn't consulted.
We mixed the plaster, they coated my face with Vaseline, stuck two straws up my nose, jabbing into tender sinus cavities, and then lathered on great gobs of white plaster goo. The girls did an excellent job of spreading it out just so, speaking to me in slow, reassuring tones, as if to a deep sea diver, sketchy about breathing when cut off from normal air flow. And I was. This is not a great project for the claustrophobic.
Everything was fine until it was mask removal time 40 minutes later. Seems we hadn’t paid enough attention to the section of the instructions that urge heavy application of Vaseline to the hairy parts, eyelashes and eyebrows. We applied none there.
As I pulled the plaster away from my face, my eyelids stretched out taught, firmly anchored by lashes that were now encased in hardened plaster. Fortunately, the eyebrows tore loose quickly, but the eyelids were a bigger problem. I had to squeeze up underneath the face-mask with a pair of blunt mustache scissors, trying my best not to poke my eyes out while snipping the outstretched eyelashes in half, equal shares.
If you look closely, you'll see both eyebrows and eyelashes embedded permanently in this life-mask, more “me” than was originally intended.
Holding the plaster doppelganger in my hands, hefting the weight of a vivid memory when two girls.ages 6 and 11, watched their Dad almost pull his eyes out of his head and rip his face off right in front of them. Wrestling with that plaster mask, the three of us together, Me, pulling painfully at what felt like an alien trying to eat my face, while the girls helped by screaming and jumping around, unsure if this was the best thing they had ever seen or a reason for them to immediately call 911..
We mixed the plaster, they coated my face with Vaseline, stuck two straws up my nose, jabbing into tender sinus cavities, and then lathered on great gobs of white plaster goo. The girls did an excellent job of spreading it out just so, speaking to me in slow, reassuring tones, as if to a deep sea diver, sketchy about breathing when cut off from normal air flow. And I was. This is not a great project for the claustrophobic.
Everything was fine until it was mask removal time 40 minutes later. Seems we hadn’t paid enough attention to the section of the instructions that urge heavy application of Vaseline to the hairy parts, eyelashes and eyebrows. We applied none there.
As I pulled the plaster away from my face, my eyelids stretched out taught, firmly anchored by lashes that were now encased in hardened plaster. Fortunately, the eyebrows tore loose quickly, but the eyelids were a bigger problem. I had to squeeze up underneath the face-mask with a pair of blunt mustache scissors, trying my best not to poke my eyes out while snipping the outstretched eyelashes in half, equal shares.
If you look closely, you'll see both eyebrows and eyelashes embedded permanently in this life-mask, more “me” than was originally intended.
Holding the plaster doppelganger in my hands, hefting the weight of a vivid memory when two girls.ages 6 and 11, watched their Dad almost pull his eyes out of his head and rip his face off right in front of them. Wrestling with that plaster mask, the three of us together, Me, pulling painfully at what felt like an alien trying to eat my face, while the girls helped by screaming and jumping around, unsure if this was the best thing they had ever seen or a reason for them to immediately call 911..
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