One time, back in December of 2016, I wore blue mascara. It was subtle, the kind you wouldn't notice unless you took a second glance at my eyelashes. The mascara was a light, vibrant blue, yet my black lashes still didn't look very different from afar.

I had been sitting in chemistry class, and a classmate was offering people a stick of blue mascara. Now, I normally don't wear makeup to school, but I laughed and accepted the mascara. I thought it was something fun--something I would love to laugh about as I applied it to my face. So I did just that. I didn't think much of it, except that now I had blue eyelashes; it made me giggle like a little girl.

After chemistry class, I forgot about the fact that I was wearing the blue mascara. I learned in my psychology course about something called habituation and the just noticeable difference. If an organism is repeatedly exposed to a stimulus, the response toward the stimulus will decrease in intensity. When I had first put on the blue mascara, I could feel the chunks of makeup on my eyelashes every time I blinked. I was consciously aware of the slightly heavier curtain above my eyes. As time wore on during class, I became used to the weight of the mascara, and I was no longer knowingly thinking about it.

The "just noticeable difference" is the amount something must be changed in order for it to pass the absolute difference threshold; this means that it is detectable fifty percent of the time. While I had thought my makeup was subtle, even the faintest blue color on my eyes passed the difference threshold in the observations of other people. I received many comments--all positive ones, don't worry. They were humorous, too, as my friends would do a double-take when they realized it. Some would look at me, squint their eyes, and proceed to put their eyes close to mine. They'd ask, "Are you wearing blue mascara?!" I'd chuckle at the reminder and nod, and they would tell me that I'm "actually pulling it off." I started to genuinely like the blue mascara.

Blue mascara seemed, at the time, like something I would just laugh and smile about months in the future. I would look back in retrospect and ask myself, "Remember the one time I wore blue mascara and so many people actually thought it looked alright?" Little did I know how much the blue makeup would grow on me. I took a liking to it; I couldn't help the fondness that had sprouted in my heart. I thought it was such a quirky little thing, just like how I'm a quirky little girl.

It doesn't take much for something to be imprinted forever into your identity. In fact, there's probably some social psychology theory to go along with object-to-person association. Blue mascara had woven itself into the fabric of my being. A week after I started wearing the blue mascara, my other friend gave me a blue eyeliner--and I wore it. Like the mascara, it's barely noticeable unless you look for it. But also like the mascara, I became extremely fond of it.

And though it was a silly thing to teach me such an important lesson, I learned to embrace my own little quirks and love them.