Sometimes in life there are things that you just can’t do. I have a whole host of Achilles’ heels which cause me varying degrees of embarrassment on a day-to-day basis. I have never been able to master the rules of 21, carry a tune or reach things on high shelves (the latter can seriously influence a supermarket shop).
Nevertheless, perhaps the flaw that I find most irritating is my inability to varnish nails. I just can’t do it. Nail-varnish goes everywhere- all over my cuticles, my fingers tips- I’ve sat back and realised I’ve varnished in strands of my own hair.
Over time I’ve become so disheartened that I’ve given up trying. When quizzed on the subject, I respond that I don’t want to draw attention to my sausage fingers. Coincidentally, this is not a complete lie. For a small person, I have abnormally pudgy hands (something akin to a bunch of chipolatas), but if I had the capacity to spruce them up with some nifty nail art, I certainly would.
My own ineptitude also has one, rather unpleasant side effect. Nail envy. This has stepped up a gear since joining my new job, where my colleague, Steph, sports an immaculate manicure at all times. Over the past month, I have watched her nails progress through the colour spectrum whilst trying to keep mine as inconspicuous as possible (no mean feat when a large portion of your time is supposedly spent typing).
The last straw came on Thursday with the arrival of the latest Wordville recruit, Pema- and more precisely- Pema’s nails. Beautifully sleek, superbly shaped and subtly coloured. The green-eyed monster in me made an immediate assent to the surface. Thankfully, before I could direct her to the men’s toilets/ slip salt in her tea/ miss-assign names to the whole floor, she confided that they were in fact gel and therefore could be achieved by any old mortal. Hurrah!
Now I’ve heard of nail extensions before (I have not lived under a rock), but I always associated them with slightly chavy celebs and suspected that the cast of TOWIE had some kind of monopoly on them. Here they were however subtle, elegant… Could this be the end of sausage fingers Pol?
This morning, in a slightly hung-over state and on a limited budget (as always) I took myself down to the Kingsland shopping centre. Granted, it’s not the most salubrious location, but I spent a very happy hour and a half being, filed, stuck, clipped, filed, buffed, filed again (I think you get the picture-it’s a lengthy process), by the rather wonderful Beate.
I consider the finished result to be nothing short of miraculous. No more are my nails shamefully stubby but long, shapely and polished in a fantastic shade of metallic Chanel (Pérodot 531). Best of all, they make a fantastically efficient clicking noise as I type. Enjoyable for me but maybe less fun for the rest of the office.*
Nevertheless, perhaps the flaw that I find most irritating is my inability to varnish nails. I just can’t do it. Nail-varnish goes everywhere- all over my cuticles, my fingers tips- I’ve sat back and realised I’ve varnished in strands of my own hair.
Over time I’ve become so disheartened that I’ve given up trying. When quizzed on the subject, I respond that I don’t want to draw attention to my sausage fingers. Coincidentally, this is not a complete lie. For a small person, I have abnormally pudgy hands (something akin to a bunch of chipolatas), but if I had the capacity to spruce them up with some nifty nail art, I certainly would.
My own ineptitude also has one, rather unpleasant side effect. Nail envy. This has stepped up a gear since joining my new job, where my colleague, Steph, sports an immaculate manicure at all times. Over the past month, I have watched her nails progress through the colour spectrum whilst trying to keep mine as inconspicuous as possible (no mean feat when a large portion of your time is supposedly spent typing).
The last straw came on Thursday with the arrival of the latest Wordville recruit, Pema- and more precisely- Pema’s nails. Beautifully sleek, superbly shaped and subtly coloured. The green-eyed monster in me made an immediate assent to the surface. Thankfully, before I could direct her to the men’s toilets/ slip salt in her tea/ miss-assign names to the whole floor, she confided that they were in fact gel and therefore could be achieved by any old mortal. Hurrah!
Now I’ve heard of nail extensions before (I have not lived under a rock), but I always associated them with slightly chavy celebs and suspected that the cast of TOWIE had some kind of monopoly on them. Here they were however subtle, elegant… Could this be the end of sausage fingers Pol?
This morning, in a slightly hung-over state and on a limited budget (as always) I took myself down to the Kingsland shopping centre. Granted, it’s not the most salubrious location, but I spent a very happy hour and a half being, filed, stuck, clipped, filed, buffed, filed again (I think you get the picture-it’s a lengthy process), by the rather wonderful Beate.
I consider the finished result to be nothing short of miraculous. No more are my nails shamefully stubby but long, shapely and polished in a fantastic shade of metallic Chanel (Pérodot 531). Best of all, they make a fantastically efficient clicking noise as I type. Enjoyable for me but maybe less fun for the rest of the office.*
Since writing this post my enthusiasm for my new nails has been slightly dented by their impracticality. Difficulties with zips, poppers, buttons and bra hooks all make dressing a lengthy process (I’m setting my alarm early tomorrow). Blackberry action is also such a kafuffle that I’m considering revising my opinion of text speak. Lol.
