wowee!

Something very exciting has happened.
I have fingernails.
Well, I hear you say, don't we all?
Hopefully. The world would be a much more disgusting place if we all walked about with raw fleshbeds on the tops of our fingers.

It might also be a happier place, as we'd bid an exuberant farewell to all those nail bars so toxic their employees wear gas masks. Mind you, a whole section of society would need to find a new hobby (aka black cash-sucking hole of finite depth and darkness).

As a long-term nailbiter, I've tucked my hands out of sight for years. Of course, violin dictates I must have short nails, but short doesn't describe the malaise I've inflicted on myself at various points in time.

Let's just say I've rarely had recourse to nail clippers and would frequently take myself off to have fake nails applied... before sinking my teeth back in and ripping them back to nothing.

You may or may not understand my excitement at finally having something to file. They're horribly wide, (my mother keeps pointing out my inability to paint them beauty-school style, which would mean painting the centre half of my nail and leaving wide naked stripes either side... it's supposed to slim nails and give the illusion of length, but I think it just makes my fingers look fat(ter)) BUT they're real. And long enough to paint red.

And really, that's all that's important.

Of course, we'll see how long this lasts.