With a glass of wine in one hand and my very patient Aunt prepping the other we set about beautifying our nails. And beautiful they were. Red, sexy, and tapered. They looked great. I was so chuffed. Truly they were a thing of beauty. Then I had to pee . . .
Now you’d think I would have realised that gluing several centimetres of plastic onto my nails would make life somewhat difficult, after all, this extension has no feeling, no spatial awareness and as I found out, absolutely no respect for the human body.
I quickly learnt to be wary of my new nails and I thought I was adapting well. I went to bed full of hope that I’d be fully used to them in the morning. However after almost gouging my husband and myself several times during the night not to mention getting the flipping things trapped in sheets every 5 minutes I decided that this maybe wasn’t for me and I would take them off.
I went to share this plan with my mother only to find her prising her own nails off with a file. It would seem I wasn’t the only one that had been suffering during the night! Together we finally got the things off and were both left with short bloodied stumps. So much for being presentable for the wedding!
I’ve learnt my lesson. I’m obviously not as committed to the feminine ideal as I thought. I draw the line at self-harm. It wasn’t all bad though. I was so ashamed of my brutalised nails at the wedding that I’ve since stopped biting them. While not quite as pristine as my false ones had been they’re more than presentable and more importantly. I haven’t killed anyone with them yet.