There’s a lady at the local shop. There’s more than one, but the one I’m thinking of has extremely long fingernails. Really. They’re like talons. But longer.
This is not my world. I was taught to stop biting my fingernails as a child by the extensive and prolonged use of clear nail varnish which, I’ll tell you now, tastes foul. But, other than not biting my nails, I don’t really take care of them.
I’ve been known to cut them. I’ve even painted them. Although any paint job has only ever lasted an afternoon at best.
I’ve never researched the whole mani-pedi world, but I am aware that these things cost money. The lady at the shop is not wearing the stick-on jobs which were so popular with the mums when I was growing up. They’re not clip-on. I couldn’t tell you whether her nails are acrylic or gels or what-have-you, but they’re long and they’re not cheap.
I can’t say I’m proud of myself but every time I see her, all I can think is: how does she…?
Now, I’m not thinking bathroom, or any kind of euphemistic me-time. The question that plagues me about this woman and her devastatingly long fingernails is: how does she get into her car?