May I Have a Manicure?

Mani from Heaven
Cont.

Hooked on a Feeling
I'm about to tell you something that has caused me nothing but grief. I can feel my nail polish.

Ruth was the first to dismiss this notion with a matter of fact, “that's ridiculous.”

Brenna also called B.S., saying, “that's impossible. No one feels their nail polish.”

I swear it's the truth, though. It's not like I'm saying my nail polish is uncomfortable or heavy or anything. I'm just saying I know it's there.

One thing I'm willing to bet that I have in common with everyone who reads this article is that we all have worn clothes at some point. I'm not saying that's right or wrong. I'm not asking you to wear clothes right now. Nor am I asking you to remove them. My point here is that when you wear clothes, you're aware of them. Sometimes, if you're unlucky, you spend your whole day feeling how itchy or tight your clothing is. Most of the time, though, you just have the vague sense of something in contact with your skin, keeping you safe from the elements (and, frequently, from lawsuits as well). That's the sort of feeling I get from nail polish.

I explained this principle to Ruth. I told her calmly and rationally that I am aware of my nail polish in the same way I'm aware of my socks. She listened quietly and nodded when appropriate. When I had finished, she smiled politely. “Yeah,” she said, “I'm still not buying it.”

Ordinarily, I would've been forced to sit there for 20 minutes of drying time. However, Lolita and Ruth had already made it clear that they were waiting at the pub across the street with a round of beers. The manicurist – who, for the record, referred to herself as a “nail technician” -- let me in on a little secret. She walked me to the salon's restroom and instructed me to run my nails under the air hand drier for two cycles. Very quick, very Madonna, very effective.

And now for the response. My hands instantly were the talk of the tavern. My sweetheart, up until then largely unmoved by my various girlish exploits, was downright rapturous. My friend Beth exclaimed that my hands were “like butter.” Even one of the regular bar denizens exclaimed over the quality of what he referred to as a “French-style manicure.” I still don't know what that means, proving once again that even burly beer hounds know more about girlishness than I do.

I noticed a huge change in the way I myself viewed my hands over the next couple of days. I couldn't stop holding them up and admiring their prettiness. I felt daintier and, surprisingly, it didn't make me want to slap myself. For the first time in this experiment, I actually enjoyed being girlish.

After about a day and a half, my skin returned to its normal level of softness. The nail polish proved remarkably durable, lasting more than a week. I firmly believe I would still be wearing it had it not been for a particularly sweaty hockey game after which my petal-perfect polish emerged from my gloves a rather unappetizing brown.

I tried to reproduce that giddy post-manicure feeling on my own by slapping on some nail polish of my own. To my great disappointment, the polish chipped almost immediately. Worse still, once a chip had appeared I couldn't stop picking at it. Before long, the home manicure had soured. My hands looked scruffy, inelegant, and weird. In other words, they looked like my hands.

The next time I want that freshly-polished feeling, I'll seek the help of a trained technician.