The final removal of the masks revealed some very happy faces -- ah, the joys of being able to breathe and see again! -- as well as some gorgeously detailed molds. Ever looked at a face inside-out? It's very strange indeed -- noses that sink inwards, eyeholes jutting out. Needless to say that at this point, no one's face was even remotely recognizable as their own.

Stage three: Cast away
With all involved looking as excited as little kids at arts-and-crafts camp, just one step remained: to make that cast. To keep the molds level, small clay supports were placed underneath the sides of each mold, and additional clay was plugged into the mold's nostrils. Plaster powder was mixed -- more carefully this time, stirring gently (after having added powder, cup by cup, to a big vat of water, until little white islands formed) to avoid introducing too many air bubbles. Once a smooth, thick, highly viscous consistency was achieved, the plaster was carefully poured into the molds. In a somewhat more social atmosphere (by this point, they'd spent half the party in complete silence and isolation), the life-casters sat in a circle, happily patting plaster into their molds to build up a one-inch thick layer of plaster cast.

The end result? Once the plaster had fully cured, the molds were carefully broken away, and the alginate had been peeled off, the casts were finally revealed in all their glory. Some looked happy (laugh lines and toothy smiles), some looked tense (pursed lips, clenched jaws and -- ouch -- even a few embedded eyebrow hairs), and others simply looked beatifically peaceful.  And it was at this point that I felt a twinge of regret for having chickened out. Because dammit, those casts looked cool.