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Apologies for the lateness of my column this week,
but I haven't been very well. And to top it all off,
yesterday I broke a nail. Sitting up in bed, trying
to think of something to write about, all I can think
about is my broken nail. How sad is that? I'm not sure
what's bothering me the most you know - the fact that
I've broken a nail, or the fact that I've become one
of those people who's bothered about breaking her nails.
I never used to care about this stuff at all. Before
moving to Dubai, I never had any nails and I didn't
really give a toss. I used to munch my way gaily through
all ten of them and then feast on the fraying edges
of my fingertips. I'd bite them all off, then sit back
and smile in satisfaction, marvelling at my handiwork.
I was embarrassed at times, of course. When sitting
before people at job interviews I used to worry that
they were looking only at my nails; bypassing the words
I was speaking and the skill-set screaming out from
my CV, and seeing only a girl who ate her own hands
for breakfast. Most of the time though, it didn't bother
me. I'm not sure why Dubai makes me think so differently.
Everyone seems to be so manicured here, and maybe, when
you get a bit older, you realise your whole life's a
job interview. When you're looking to make a good impression
on the world, it's really not the done thing, to be
dining on your digits.
When I first got to Dubai I made the mistake of getting
those fake, gel stick-on nails glued to my real ones
in a salon somewhere in Garhoud. How I loved them! I
revelled in doing everything I couldn't do before, like
scratching them on flesh, drumming them on hard surfaces
and using the tip of one to scrape the scum from behind
another after a night on the town (oh shut up, we all
do it). Of course I knew I was living a lie - behind
that façade, a hungry nail-biter was still at
large, but no one knew and no one cared and slowly but
surely, I become one with my nails. They were an extension
of my changing self. Until I had to get them filed off
with a drilling machine akin to something from a Wes
Craven movie (gulp).
After that torturous experience, I vowed to grow them
properly. In typical Dubai style, a mani every two weeks
helped to keep my teeth at bay, but occasionally I'd
slip. I'd lapse back into my filthy habit with a little
nibble behind closed doors. "Just one. Just one
won't matter", I'd tell myself. Only then, because
the set was uneven, I'd have to straighten them out
by nibbling them all, which shot me straight back to
square one. Dammit.
Yes, I definitely had bad days, but eventually I managed
to grow them all quite beautifully. With not a gel tip,
frayed end or ragged cuticle in sight, I was finally
whole, a real woman, complete and completely me. Until…
yesterday, when my longest, bestest, most beautiful
nail (on my naked wedding finger no less) split, crumbled
and fell to the floor, in a pub. Oh, the misery.
It's back to the salon for me tomorrow, before my demons
return and I bite them all off again. I still have nine
lovely nails left and I refuse to let this one incident
ruin it for them. If Dubai has taught me anything over
the last year, it's that polishing up your presentation
skills can really take you places. If only I could do
the same for my liver.
Posted: 24 August 2008
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