Frenchly Nailed

Most of us have a “List Of Things to do Before I Die”: Scale the Everest (drat, it’s too high, will settle for base camp), own a Hummer ( hmm, at least the little hatchback fits into the smallest of parking spots), build a log cabin (wood still catches fire doesn’t it?) et cetera, et cetera…

Some LOT to do BID are fairly down to earth, and am glad to say can been ticked off the list:
· Trek in the Himalayan mountains: Check
· Act in a play: Check
· Visit niece in USA before she turns 10: Check
· Plan a euro-rail trip: Under active consideration
· French manicure: err…here’s the story:

My nails have a brain of their own. It is possible. My daughter has proved this at a very very young age in Class 1, when she told her teacher that she really really wanted to write and complete the rest of the work but her hand and fingers did not want to. “See, Mimi”, she said, “Do you think I don’t want to write? I do, but my hand doesn’t let me. My fingers say they are tired.” To explore the possibility that her fingers were tipped with gray matter were beyond us adults…but it is possible. Then I saw a colleague wave her hands nonchalantly, and stared in awe at the perfect white tips on her fingers. If not gray matter, then white!

“What is that?” I asked pointing at the white edges. “Duh, a French Manicure.” So ever since then, I have tried to grow my nails, but they seem to have had a mind of their own. Sometimes the nails actually made the effort and grew themselves out, only to be guillotined by the kitchen knife along with the bhindi. Once, they got grated along with the ginger. On yet other occasions, they were soaked to the point of withering away in my bout to clean and scrub everything from my kid to the walls of the house. Sometimes, I consoled myself that nails would interfere with the keyboard, so I stunted the effort and snipped them away. After all, one doesn’t need to be either a size zero, or have french-manicured hands to create usuable content for the software industry.

Besides, at least I knew what it was, and that gave me occasion to be gleefully one-up on my sister-in-law who said, “You, know, these days, girls dip the edges of their nails in white…” “Duh! That’s a French manicure!” Then I have people around me who are more than a consolation. They form a motley group who would, I imagine, have the following responses to the question “Ever had a French manicure?”:
· Nah, too plain – purple nails would be more like it!
· Didn’t you know, I bite off more than I can chew/grow.
· MIL due (and it’s a mildew of an in-law variety), so might be forced to use nails as weapons.
· God will love us with or without french-manicured nails – God will love us without fingers as well.
· I am forced to wonder about the hygiene factor- are such nails a healthy option?
· Kya Boli?

As time flew, and the nails were grown, chopped and grown again, only to be chopped again - the child who had brain matter in her fingertips, grew up into a teen interested in nail art, complete with a talented friend painting flowers on her nails. Needless to say she managed to convince me of the need of a manicure, right in the middle of a grocery trip. Buoyed by the fact that there was a salon right there, I allowed myself to be propelled in and hand over my nails. The girl in pink brought out her weapons of nail destruction and initiated the attack on my nails with a file. As she wielded it mercilessly, she took a look at my face, and said, “First time ever?” I nodded helplessly as my hands were soaked, scrubbed, kneaded, and then the dead skin on the cuticles were sawed away. I did not even flinch or make a fuss as a few drops of blood were shed – even though the thought of my little finger being amputated on the altar of the French, made me shudder from inside. I knew that if ever there was a moment to make a fuss and ask for an angry but perfectly justified refund it was then. However, there is something about the beauty industry that has me all timid and defeated (you should see me fighting for my rights in a police station – but that’s another story).

While my child was suitably impressed, and armed with information on the steps of a manicure to start her own nail spa for friends and family, I had no patience to sit and blow on the nails daintily. I left feeling the indignation right till the ends of my fingertips. From the French manicure to the Brazilian wax – I salute the fairer sex so ready to bear the brunt of these foreign beauty assaults. As for me, those white edges had me on the edge. From the moment we left the salon, the nails had way too many close brushes with the hauling of grocery, the making of tea, the washing and peeling of vegetables, (try making the Indian aloo paratha with the French manicure), and of course the old nemesis - the kitchen knife. When the poor fingers with their white French tips finally came to earn a living with their familiar tap dance on the keyboard, to complete some urgent document deliverables, they already looked frayed.

My only thought was much ado about nothing…and I actually had it on the list?

But as is often said, never underestimate a woman with a French manicure?!

French manicure: Check.

Photo Credits: Ayesha