I vividly remember the day in the early 1990s when my mother told me to man up and paint my own nails. It was May. There was some kind of horse-related sports show on the television. A subtle breeze carried the brain-killing scent of solvents.
I was doing the whole whiny "But Mom, I'm right-handed! I can't coerce this useless southpaw into painting the tips of my right hand!" She told me to deal. And I did.
And now, sadly, the only ambidextrous skill I posses (besides pounding out prattle on this here keyboard at a disturbing rate) is being able to maneuver nail polish onto my right hand. Thanks, Mom.
Forward all compliments to Ms. Jo Haltermon.
I heart a good home mani. So much so that even at the darkest time in my fashion travails (JNCO Jeans, anyone?) I always kept a neat nail.
Perfectly punk with that pristine red manicure, there.
And while plying paint onto my tips was always more about investing in a small amount of self-care and narcissistic meditation than mimicking a hand model, I'll be damned if people don't notice this nonsense.
They also notice when you hold adorable baby chickens.
Outside observers (high school classmates, conscientious objectors to fashionability, random dudes) have confirmed that a thoughtful paint job, even on these monster metacarpi, is appreciated.
A few of my favorite things
And while a little recognition for all this beautification is certainly rewarding, my favorite part of the whole home mani ordeal is curling up on the couch with Heidi Klum or Tyra Banks and taking an hour for total self-indulgent digit lovins.
So what are your thoughts on a well-painted paw? Does it make a difference at all? Do you prefer a salon experience?
If you're interested, you can read my (ridiculously thorough) guidelines for good-looking grapplers on my personal blog, Pump Up the Frump.