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Elsa’s life notes for any occasion

Monday, February 10, 2014

“Sorry to say this,’’ the manicurist said, not the least bit reluctantly. “But it’s age.’’


Stupidly, I had asked why, despite her regular ministrations, my hands were looking like I had clawed my way out of a dungeon. I expected to hear I was allergic to the nail varnish or something equally dramatic, because opinionistas need a certain amount of drama to write about.


Instead, the divinity that shapes my ends (to steal a line from Dorothy Parker) gave me a shrug and very little sympathy.


If I had known that my once indestructible nails would turn to tissue paper, I would have taken up the piano years ago, just so my younger, prettier fingertips could have had more play. 


I filed the information under Life Note No 53.


Here are the first 52.






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