“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.