For realsies

Manicure Gone Horribly Wrong July 13, 2012

I rarely, rarely avail myself of that upper-crust indulgence: the manicure.  Perhaps it comes from my Depression-era raised mother, who would be downright embarrassed to do such a thing.  On the other hand, I do treat myself to the occasional pedicure from time to time, and Mom would sooner have pierced cartilage (I upset her farm girl sensibilities when I got my lobes pierced, let alone any of that other heathen puncturing–it really created a rift that she carried to her grave).  Mom owned some nail polish, yes, but I am quite certain that the striation in the bottle’s contents indicates a pre-sixties Avon product.

For those of you who have a life, my research on your behalf reveals that the image at left is an example of what we do these days when we want to tell the world all about our latest nail color: hand hug the bottle whilst displaying our fresh and perfect manicure.

Getting back to depression,  this is not about a perfect manicure.  I did give it a shot, due to the lure of an online mani/pedi coupon.  I was paired up with a nail technician who was all but silent while taking the better part of two hours to complete said M/P.  It was nice, you know, the awkward quietude that enabled me to pay close attention to the sitcom broadcast on four flat screens in the cavernous, mostly empty and orange salon.  And everything looked quite nice at the end.

Let’s just cut to the chase and put it out there—by the time I was in my car, I had dinged up no fewer than three fingernails, rendering me impotent as a fingernail model.  HOW is it possible not to do this, I ask you!?  HOW can a five dollar bill be so destructive? Clearly, I am not made for manicuring.  My fingers reject nail polish and respond with the equivalent of digit projectile vomiting.

BUT WAIT! I saw something going on in there that supposedly yields an indestructible result, even in the face of the abrasive and abusive five dollar bill.  Varnish? Veneer? Shellac!! It seemed that the main difference is that you have to “cure” your newly-shellacked (?) claws in a mini-kiln for a couple of minutes, then walk on hot coals, after which your nails are ready to return to the potter’s wheel and form the urn of a lifetime!  Surely that costs more. . .



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