Despite my worries of being mistaken for those Kalifornian sisters whose names begin with Ks, I fell victim to my own mascara issues and had new eyelashes permanently glued onto my head — yes, extensions. Klassy.

I hated them for the first 10 minutes, then dithered about them for the next 10 hours. By day two, I had pronounced them the best thing I’d ever done to my head (besides coloring my hair and reading Hemingway, of course).

It took an hour, cost $100, and now I┬ádon’t have to wear mascara, which means 85 minutes per week that just returned to my schedule.

Tyson, who has a gorgeous, minky fringe of thick lashes, said this:

“Now you look like me!”

Readers: his are better.