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Because I have listened to the logic of popular consumer culture, I have learned that little about my body is adequate. I can, in fact, with sufficient detail to cause both you and me great pain, describe how it is that I do not, and cannot ever approximate the unreachable standards for feminine beauty set before me. I will restrain myself from comparing my own appearance with that of an underwear model. This kind of whining gets us nowhere. What I will tell you is that I have twenty perfectly manicured nails. The women who visit the Art of Nails acrylic nail salon are both beautiful and strong. I am among them. I visit the Art of Nails, located in modest corner of the Woodlane shopping center in suburban Kettering Ohio, once every three weeks for my “fills.” A fill is what women who have artificial nails get done when their weak and unsightly God-given nails start to grow from beneath the artificial ones. The fill is applied by a highly trained technician who carefully conceals the unsightly gap that appears between cuticle and prosthesis with a toxic smelling mix of clear liquid and powder expertly applied with a paint brush then filed away with a drill-like apparatus, then carefully shaped with a block of the finest sandpaper, then finished with polish and airbrush, then dried to a durable long lasting lustrous finish. I’ve lived with my acrylic nails for over two years, and over those years have grown into a more competent and confident woman for the experience. My acrylics are beautiful, yes, but they are strong too. The acrylic manicure is tedious, painful. Worst is the wait, for there is nothing to do but stare at the four large color photographs that decorate the walls. The pictures show women in provocative poses holding appropriate props with their acrylic tipped fingers. The shots suggest that after you’ve had your nails done your life as you know it will transform. Not only will you look more glamorous, but once you’ve had your acrylic nails superglued, molded, shaved, disinfected, sanded, and polished and dried to a hard, long-lasting, lustrous finish, your entire life will improve. You will make more money, you will go more places, you will have more power, and you will more fully enjoy life. The pictures assure me I have chosen well to have my nails done. I believe them. |
Two strong but feminine hands pose behind the leather sheathed wheel of a late model Mercedes Benz. Everything, save for the driver and her glamour length cherry red acrylics, gleams chrome and black leather. One hand strokes the wheel with grace at eleven o’clock, while the other fingers the key chain as it rests on an exposed mid thigh. I’ve taken a liking to the woman in the first photograph. Having earned the right to hold the keys, the driver sits proud and prosperous, in control of her life. Although I admire her, something about the woman behind the wheel irritates me. All is sexy, smooth, and perfect but for one small flaw: the delicate threads of the driver’s sheer black hose hold a perfect little snag. Shouldn’t a good manicure leave your nails smooth and cuticle free? There is no excuse for this woman. She obviously cares very much for appearances, but then she snags her hose. Worse yet, she allows a camera to immortalize her humiliation in an acrylic encased photograph to be distributed throughout the entire nationwide Art of Nails franchise. But maybe the snag had nothing to do with the state of her nails. I wonder, maybe, that the driver is someone’s cheap mistress. Maybe her middle aged sugar daddy lets her borrow the car when his unsuspecting wife is away working a second job trying to keep the family out of chapter eleven bankruptcy court. Maybe, following an afternoon of passion, the driver had to rush, struggling with her hose in the back (leather) seat of the car. Still, I admire a woman who, with her fierce red nails, is at the wheel, unashamed of her own sexuality, confident enough to touch her own thigh in the near public space of the front seat of her car. I have more sympathy for the fake-nailed hussy who trades sex for luxury than I do for the fool who sends money home for car payments.
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