Spending so much time with computers, games, dogs, cars, and other non-frilly things leaves me with a girly side that’s nothing short of, well - inept at best.
A girlfriend of mine convinced me to get acrylic nails before Lotusphere, with the argument that they’d look great, and I’d feel great. She was right, of course, but boy did I realize I’m waaaay behind the times in terms of “fanshy girly technology”.
Wine lists I can handle. I can blindy stumble through a sushi menu, and stutter “hamachi, please.” I can even close my eyes and wildly point at the oil change list and still manage to come out OK.
I could have never made it through this list of nail options without my friend there at the time.
Gel, acrylic, tips, fills, french, pink and white, UV gel, polish changes, repairs, ahhh!
As it turns out, my friend told them I needed a “full set”. Which, by the way, was not even listed ON the menu. Apparently, most women just know these things.
Anyway, I entered the salon with cuticles the size of small pebbles, and walked out with no less than ten new little daggers on the ends of my fingers. They looked great. And I did feel great. But, not having to stare at my cuticles anymore left me all sorts of time to do some thinking. These things are weapons! Wolverine’s innards have nothing on these tips.
It baffles the mind. People aren’t allowed on planes with toothpicks, yet I was allowed on with my ten indestructible scythes of doom.
Here’s the real tricky part about these nails. Every two weeks or so, you have to go back to get them worked on. I called my friend back.
“What do I ask for when I go in? I can’t just call and say ‘hello, I’d like some routine maintenance done on my nails’…’can I have the 3,000 tap polish change?’”
When she finally stopped laughing at me, she informed me that I needed a ‘fill’.
As it turns out, I didn’t need to ask for anything. I went in, and showed them my hands. They knew what to do. And now I know for next time.
We all have to start learning somewhere, I suppose. Now, moving onto learning more about my car. If you asked me what a “limited slip differential” was before owning Eloise, I’d have said it was why they never have anything in my size in stock at Victoria’s Secret.