Anybody seen my eyelash? I lost one last Sunday. I don't just mean an eyelash came loose from my eyelid. Nor do I mean I rubbed my eye, got a lash on my finger, and it disappeared—the lash not the finger. (That finger hasn't gone missing in months. We had a talk about that.)

And I certainly don't mean I lost one lash from a vast collection of all my lashes that've ever come loose, preserved in jars color-coded for "Left Eye" (black) and "Right Eye" (red) and labeled with the year. And decorated with pink lace if it was a special lash-year like 1997. (Wow, a whole decade's gone by since then. . . .)

No, I mean I took a shower, looked in the mirror, and noticed an eyelash on my eyeball. Then I tried to get it out—the lash not the . . . well, you know. But the lash migrated to the inner corner. The curve of the lash perfectly matched the curve of my eyeball. Nothing worked. Not rubbing. Not blinking. Not pulling the top lid over the bottom one. (I think that's to cause tears, which I really hope is supposed to rhyme with "dears" not "dares.") A couple hours later I checked. The lash had moved up a little, but I still couldn't get it out. Later in the day, I tried again. Nothing. Tried again later. Nothing. Then that evening I looked, and it was gone.

Where did it go? Maybe it went off on an adventure. Or to fight crime. The Lash of Liberty! I suppose its only superpower would be poking the villain in the eye, but sometimes that's all you need. The moral would be that we all just need to do what we can to make the world a better place. Plus there'd be a breakfast cereal: Lash Loops. Slogan: "I'm loopy for Lash Loops!"

Well, that's silly. Maybe I'm thinking these things because the lash migrated up into my brain. No, I read there's a structure in the head that stops that kind of thing from happening. But what if getting an eyelash in your brain makes you THINK you read such a structure exists? Well played, Eyelash. Well played.

No, I can still think of other things. Cars . . . blinkers. Baseball . . . batting. Raft . . . logs. Ha! Lashed together. Hmm . . . .

Don't worry, I'm probably fine. No need to be mascaraed. Er, scared. The Lash of Liberty will protect me. AND stay crunchy in milk.