Friday, April 29, 2011

What's a Man- i-cure?

Morning Readers,

    Like most days, my morning routine found me having yet another staring contest with myself. I'm not weird, I simply enjoy holding onto the sides of my sink and locking eyes with the visage representing me for the rest of the day. As the information feed usually isn't that enthralling, I'm forced to do some simple maintenance so that anyone unlucky enough to knock on my door doesn't think they've accidentally ended up at Gary Busey's house. Brush teeth, apply last of deodorant stick, smooth out dark, forbidden forest that used to be my eyebrows, run hands through...uh oh.

     That last step involves running my hands through my hair (because brushes are for grown-ups) and twirling my hay stack up on top of the old noggin. Today I got stuck, as in, I was running my hands through my hair and my beast of a thumbnail grabbed hold of my soft locks and ripped out a chunk the size of one of Paris Hilton's extensions. I was stuck, and bald...and in sore need of a herd of firefighters armed with nail clippers.
     After carefully extracting hair from nail, I assessed the damage.  

Got a quarter-incher there Captain. She looks dangerous feisty. Gonna need a harpoon and a bigger boat.

     While I wasn't looking (ok, ignoring), a tiny crack had begun to form and was beginning its trek across my nail bed in hot pursuit of hair to eat and eyes to gouge out. Crying and pouting were out of the question; I'd let it get that bad. This was a new testament that I do what most moms do and ignore my nails.
     In the olden days of low-rise pants and tight tops, I was a nail junkie. Clipping, french manicuring and filing were my friends. Nail salons were my soulmates. Wounded strangers were left in my wake to throw open the doors of the parlor and shove my feet the bubbly, though questionable tubs. When a technician asked me, "You wa' flowa on toe?", I'd beam and reply, "Why yes! Something close to Monet's "Water Lillies" would be delightful. Let me look for my debit card."
     That was then, this is now. It's not that I wouldn't love to go to the file jockeys, but it isn't practical. Neatly-painted tips would dissolve in my dishwater, melt-off with "poop exposure", rip-off when strangling the dog. Not to mention the horrific embarrassment after coaxing myself into the salon, covering my face with a magazine and having the poor nail girl say, "You wa I pain garden over yellow nail?". Shoot me..
     Still, I should probably put a little more effort in. Pick-up a file once in a while, fight the beast, and make the world a safer place....

Until Next Time Readers!