When I was a child and a teenager, every once in awhile an eyelash would fall off. Instead of just falling, it would get lost under an eyelid, stuck to my eye. That hurts. Well, not pain, but strong discomfort. One moment I would be fine and the next I’d be running to my Dad.
My Dad was not a huggy, fuzzy dad. He was cerebral, rational, mild. He would sit my agitated self down in a chair under very good light. I had a terror of anyone touching my eyes, but he would gently pull my lid just enough to find out where that thin black strand had adhered. Then he would take a small strip of newspaper and roll it into a pointed cylinder, slim as slim. And he would take that lash out in one or two soft swipes.
And I would say “Thanks, Dad.” And he would go back to looking over computer print outs or reading or TV. And I would go back to homework or reading or whatever I used to do back then. Taken care of.