Clareified

I was telling someone the other day that my mother wouldn’t let me wear makeup and or paint my nails unless there was a dance recital, play or school graduation which merited such harlotry. Honestly, she could map out the path from eyeshadow to teen preganancy in thirty-three seconds without taking a breath.
Plus, I was always quite the tomboy and my nails were always getting smashed off by handballs or basketballs or in my softball mitts. I didn’t get my first manicure till my second year in law school and that was because I was bored and that’s what my friend was doing that afternoon.
It was nice, I liked the hand massaging dealie, but the paint would inevitably smear even before I left the shop or end up with a perfect imprint of my big left toe right there on the surface somehow — so, basically, I never saw the need.
Until last week:

Ok, and I know that looks freaky, but dude, it wasnt even the look of it that prompted me to action. They were basically impeding my ability to type and as I make my living blogging and text messaging, I couldn’t have my lightning quick wit impaired by ninteen inch nails.
So I made a date to have the cut…though, hours before I went in I started to panic that I had waited so long that my nails now had a lifeforce of their own.
I feared that as I approached the salon, it would sense its own impending destruction and retailate — taking out a few innocent Chinese manicurists in an effort to escape.
Alas, my fears were evidently unfounded.

All will be well for a good four, five months.

This entry was posted by Dawn Summers on Sunday, July 29th, 2007 at 12:56 am and is filed under Personal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.