“No, seriously. I mean, like what sort of eye shadow do you like?”

I've never worn eye shadow.

At this, dear reader, I fear the English language doesn't have enough beauty and complexity to properly describe the look on Sam's face. It was a mix of shock and horror and pure, unadulterated confusion. It was as if I had told her that I run my own meth lab. In my pants. And then offered her a guided tour. It was priceless.

“Well Okay then,” she finally managed to utter.

If it's any consolation, I'm totally open to any suggestions.

“Okay, alright.” She grabbed a mix of colors, still nodding to herself. “We're just going to have fun then.”

Over the next 40 minutes, Sam brought the full power of Paula Dorf to bear upon my face, pausing occasionally to show Maureen and me a revolutionary product from her arsenal. There were solvents designed to waterproof mascara, to transform eyeshadow into eyeliner and to remove everything once you're done. There was a dizzying assortment of base coats, primers and top coats, and of course a veritable three-ring circus of brushes. We learned about the Dorf compound in China where special squirrels are bread and strategically shaved in service of the cheek brush. Clearly the squirrels are well-compensated for their time as the brush costs $35.

Above all, we learned that all Dorfernalia is designed to be long-lasting and hard living. You can apply it in the morning, work all day, go dancing, go to sleep and wake up the next day still fully made up. In order to test the validity of this Dorfism, I played a floor hockey game in my new face that night. After an hour of running and bumping into people in a sweaty gym, I emerged just as glamorous as before. In fact, even after sleeping eight hours and showering, I could still see the remnants of Sam's handy work. My eyes may never be unmade again.