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ON A PERSONAL BIAS by Bernice Peck

By an eyelash, fellows:  Recently I read (in Vogue, which covers all bases) that Parisian dudes are cantering in to the Carita Beauty Center for an offbeat service.  Eyelash dyeing.  I snickered.  Then I thought, well why not, my good man?  Tons of guys dye their hair.  Beards and moustaches got the old touch-up job way back in Victoria's time.

Anyway.  On lad, lass, or self, I find pale lashes bleak, uncomely.  Bleak, too, the sudden allergies that can happen overnight.  As when my ophthalmologist said, "Seems to be your mascara.  Do without.  Or try till you find one that agrees with you."

It took time.  And in case you are too funny that way, you might have a go at the two that are, currently, working for me.  One is Clinique (at Saks Fifth).  The other, Evelyn Marshall (at Bendel).  Neither has yet turned my mean green eyes red, sensitive, swollen, itchy or cranky.  Nice change.  Either makes the dumb pale lashes dark and depthy.

As for eyelash-dyeing itself, all I know is that it lasts about 5 weeks, and ladies have it done in the Saks Fifth Avenue Beauty Salon, $7.50.  You're on your own.

Their very words:  Beverly Sills, "I always tell my age first – to beat people to it."

Charles Addams, himself jovial, about his spooky New York cartoons, "I do this instead of being a criminal."

Gore Vidal, "Then we got the CIA and nothing has worked since."

The notably big restauranteur, Elaine, explains her own heft, "In most ethnic homes the commotion around the dinner table is so hysterical one overeats to avoid it."

Not true, but it sounds comical, Alan King, "Yogurt tastes like dead cream."

Re fear, our music-maker Alan Jay Lerner (who only turned out Gigi, My Fair Lady, etc.), says, "The minute I sit down to write I'm scared to death."

Darling old duffer, maybe 90, on 8th St., "Wow, man, like wow, this goddamn arthritis can wipe you out.  Wow."

E.B. White, America's impeccable stylists, instructs, "Never call a stomach a tummy without good reason."

Odds & a few ends:  Would not life be more enjoyable if certain of your friends took listening-lessons?

Some designers are seen whomping it up at so many parties – makes you wonder when they find time to sign, let alone design, half the stuff credited to them.

Exasperating, girls who can look pretty even when they cry.

You doubtless knew, but I didn't, that the word nauseous actually means one's causing it, not having it.  And that fortuitous means just by chance, has nothing (at all) to do with being fortunate.  One thing I do not:  Interestingly enough practically never is.

I tread on my own nerves so often, it's hard for other people to sidestep them.

Writing, even for some of the best, is like doing needlepoint without a thimble, slow, painful, even bloody.  S.J. Perelman says he is on Page 35 of his autobiography – and has been for several years.

Helpful hints from Washington:  Evangeline Bruce clears a party of all-night-stayers by having the servants start rearranging the furniture.

My fair city:  Plenty of New Yorkers actually prefer to spend most of the summer right here.  Me, certainly.  Weather like this, I enjoy being what I otherwise deplore – a street eater.  And lap at a melting ice cream cone whilst ambling our asphalt lanes – shady side of course.

But for a real frosted summer festival, give me lunch at The Russian Tea Room.  That sweet anachronism with the all-year-round Christmas decorations – to make you feel it has to be snowing on them steppes outside.  The chilly rosy borscht.   Better yet (ahhh), the red caviar blini drowning in sour cream and melted butter – because who gives a damn about either weather or weight.  At $9.75 a throw, it's a dish you couldn't possibly say is just like Momma's.  Heavenly.  Waddle home.

Comfort is the one luxury I'm addicted to – and the only one I can still afford.

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