Avert Your Eyes (Fingertip Edition)

Oh, gosh! I'm sorry!

Did you not pay see the title of this post and accidentally glance at today's "beauty shot"? (I use that term ironically.) Well, believe me when I say that the assortment of copyright-protected shots of funguses, infections, and other stomach-turning maladies that result from a Google search of "strange fingernails" is even worse than the image you see here.

We are now at T-minus 47 days in the countdown to the Wedding of the Century Part Deux, which means that the speed of Project Mutton Into Lamb is accelerating. (As, obviously, was the usage of capital letters in that previous sentence, for which I apologize.)

The Mother of the Groom dress has been checked off the list, and although I'm not posting any online pictures until the day of the ceremony or thereabouts, suffice it to say that I love it. It is so fancy and princess-y, in fact, that I realized the hands emerging from its sleeves were not up to snuff.

My hands can be charitably described as well-used. They have developed Grandma Veins(TM) and age spots because I'm an overachiever even though I don't have grandchildren and still feel quite young. They have converted years of piano playing and knitting into knobby index knuckles. They have been mistreated (one fingertip crushed by slamming into a Suburban door, another scarred by injudicious use of a cutting tool) and my fingernails are routinely used as screwdrivers, pot scrubbers, back scratchers, weed diggers, and label removers.

But I am optimistic, always, and when a young and beautiful friend said that all my hands needed was a dip manicure, I believed her.

I have never had a manicure in my life. Oh, I've slapped some clear polish on my nails, and when Boy#1 and Lovely Girl were married I asked the woman doing my pedicure to clean up my cuticles, but a full manicure? See the list of things I use my hands for and tell me if that seems like a good investment. (Rabbit trail: Almost every time I am in the nail salon I see teenagers in the salon having full manicures and pedicures. HOW DO THEY AFFORD THIS?)

So last week, when I was in for the every-four-weeks maintenance on my summer feet, I asked the sweet girl who does that job to also give my fingertips a makeover.

"A dip, please," I told her. "I like my nails short, and I'd like a French tip."

Well.

I was the worst manicure subject ever. Even though she warned me to PLEASE STOP MOVING MY HANDS, I apparently have ticklish fingers because every time she grasped a different digit I flinched. By the fifth application of powder and polish I was getting the hang of it but did you know that you can't blow on a dip manicure, or wave it around, or do any of the things you'd normally do to make it dry more quickly when you have already been in the nail shop for upwards of two hours and there are miles to go before you sleep? Poor Kelly was beside herself.

"I CANNOT FIX THEM!" she warned me, probably remembering the number of times I've limped back into the shop after smacking my new pedicure as I got into the car. "THEY WRINKLE!"

So I sat there with my hands quieted, pondering the new reality in which my fingernails wrinkle. It's the logical next step, I guess, since the rest of my body seems to be more Shar-Pei every day.

Five days later, I'm optimistic about my fingertips. My instructions of short plus French tip means they are not exactly what I want to see (a little too much of both of those) but the durability seems excellent. In fact, as I picked baked-on casserole off an under-soaked Pyrex last night I forgot to pamper the nails, and they were still shiny and unchipped when I finished.

Now if I could only do something about those Grandma Veins....