It all started with Cherries In The Snow--Charles Revson's, and Revlon's, very first shade of adapted automobile paint--helping women to buck up during the Depression and War effort.
Always, Fingernails. It was never an issue among us. Since I was six years old, I had long nails. I learned to take care of them myself, albeit I didn't start wearing red polish for years and years: A family tradition. One wasn't human, let alone a female or feminine, without Fingernails. I was convinced that they possessed some bit of magical power, in order to make a woman complete. I had to have them. Inwardly, I knew this.
When I was ten, I made the fatal mistake of taking piano lessons. Who knew? I was the bane of my teacher's existence. Why? The long fingernails. Did you know that in order to play the piano, one has to have Short fingernails? Yes. I took lessons year after year, and it was an ongoing battle about the fingernails. Clickety clack, clickety clack, upon the keys. My teacher, who was petite, tremulous, dressed in flowered silks without a brassiere, and with eminently blue hair, wanted--nay, demanded--my nails be short; to round the hand, curve the fingers, hit the keys with the soft pads of the quiet fingertips. Power to the upper knuckles and carpals. A fair request.
I, on the other hand, wanted to look utterly gorgeous from the wrists down, even in the fifth grade. Why not? Everyone in my family was gorgeous in the very same way. Long, luscious nails upon even longer, artistic and beautifully sculpted fingers and hands. Do you have any idea how refreshing it is, when doing arithmetic assignments, or a social studies paper, to absentmindedly take a break, and gaze down at such elegant, slender, appendages? My hands were so lovely that when I injured them, nothing could give me greater pleasure than to dote on the ethereal beauty of their X-rayed poise. Think of it.
After all, I only "tickled the ivories" a few hours a week; yet, I reasoned, I had to look at my hands, 24/7. It was obvious. Materialistic and empirical piano vs. spiritual, eternally beautiful hands. What's to discuss?
Ultimately, I quit the lessons, and my fingers were at peace. I quit for other reasons, too--like ongoing migraine headaches every Monday on the spot, about four hours before lesson-time. The nails were a part of the pain. I assure you.
*
Life came, and life has gone by.
*
Now, don't drop your drawers, but I'm taking piano lessons, again. Same piano. Same practicing only a lot more, same everything. Different teacher (the old one died years ago). Same Fingernails. Only, this time, with the red polish: The true family tradition remember, from generation to generation. (L'dor v' dor.)
Wouldn't you know it? Here we go again.
This time, the nails are eminently shorter--down to the nub. The style has changed: Computers, touch-screens, and smart phones are the name of the game. Short nails are a prerequisite for survival in the information age. However, I would like to say, they are not short enough for my piano teacher, and this one doesn't even have blue hair!
So help me. I clip, I file. The nails are Below the fingertips! But, they click. I have tall cuticles; I have long nail beds. No matter what I do, I still click rather than tickle, the keys. My own rhythm section.
I've taken to giving myself a manicure the night before the lessons. I hope this will do the trick. Maybe she won't notice. I have painted them a neutral color so that the teacher can see how stubby and minuscule these nails are, relative to their potential. My nails short, are longer than many women's, long! It's the way God made me. I'm stuck.
What can you say about a woman who has three pianos--including a baby grand that substitutes as the dining room table under a chandelier-- in a living room/dining room area that's maybe 10'x15'? There is a heavy, Victorian jacquarded tapestry of a sofa with antique gold fringe hanging all about, two over-stuffed chairs, a disc-player, and two mammoth felines. Definitely, a room out of necessity, that commands absolute order and control; everything must be in its place. Including the Fingernails. Or Else.
There you are. I am caught. I love the music, discipline myself to the practicing, thoroughly enjoy the teacher, delight over the charmingly petite house--fringe and all. What to do, what to do...
Um, maybe I should tell you that my teacher had her cats de-clawed. Do you think this is in the back of her mind? Naaaaah, couldn't be. Or could it?
I, on the other hand, wanted to look utterly gorgeous from the wrists down, even in the fifth grade. Why not? Everyone in my family was gorgeous in the very same way. Long, luscious nails upon even longer, artistic and beautifully sculpted fingers and hands. Do you have any idea how refreshing it is, when doing arithmetic assignments, or a social studies paper, to absentmindedly take a break, and gaze down at such elegant, slender, appendages? My hands were so lovely that when I injured them, nothing could give me greater pleasure than to dote on the ethereal beauty of their X-rayed poise. Think of it.
After all, I only "tickled the ivories" a few hours a week; yet, I reasoned, I had to look at my hands, 24/7. It was obvious. Materialistic and empirical piano vs. spiritual, eternally beautiful hands. What's to discuss?
Ultimately, I quit the lessons, and my fingers were at peace. I quit for other reasons, too--like ongoing migraine headaches every Monday on the spot, about four hours before lesson-time. The nails were a part of the pain. I assure you.
*
Life came, and life has gone by.
*
Now, don't drop your drawers, but I'm taking piano lessons, again. Same piano. Same practicing only a lot more, same everything. Different teacher (the old one died years ago). Same Fingernails. Only, this time, with the red polish: The true family tradition remember, from generation to generation. (L'dor v' dor.)
Wouldn't you know it? Here we go again.
This time, the nails are eminently shorter--down to the nub. The style has changed: Computers, touch-screens, and smart phones are the name of the game. Short nails are a prerequisite for survival in the information age. However, I would like to say, they are not short enough for my piano teacher, and this one doesn't even have blue hair!
So help me. I clip, I file. The nails are Below the fingertips! But, they click. I have tall cuticles; I have long nail beds. No matter what I do, I still click rather than tickle, the keys. My own rhythm section.
I've taken to giving myself a manicure the night before the lessons. I hope this will do the trick. Maybe she won't notice. I have painted them a neutral color so that the teacher can see how stubby and minuscule these nails are, relative to their potential. My nails short, are longer than many women's, long! It's the way God made me. I'm stuck.
What can you say about a woman who has three pianos--including a baby grand that substitutes as the dining room table under a chandelier-- in a living room/dining room area that's maybe 10'x15'? There is a heavy, Victorian jacquarded tapestry of a sofa with antique gold fringe hanging all about, two over-stuffed chairs, a disc-player, and two mammoth felines. Definitely, a room out of necessity, that commands absolute order and control; everything must be in its place. Including the Fingernails. Or Else.
There you are. I am caught. I love the music, discipline myself to the practicing, thoroughly enjoy the teacher, delight over the charmingly petite house--fringe and all. What to do, what to do...
Um, maybe I should tell you that my teacher had her cats de-clawed. Do you think this is in the back of her mind? Naaaaah, couldn't be. Or could it?
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