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Getting a hand up on Valentine's Day
By Deborah Taylor-Hollis
Another Valentine's Day is coming, and for most of us, the gifts our beloveds give us will be less than stupendous. On average, if we receive anything at all, it will probably fall far short of expectations: the candy will be from Walgreens, not Godiva; the flowers will be in Safeway cellophane and not in a huge crystal vase; and dinner out will probably exclude chamber music in the mezzanine and include place mats we can color.
Some of us have found ingenious ways to get around our beloveds without offending the kind but misguided spouse. Maybe you go pick several different things you want, put them ALL on lay-away and let him go in and choose just from your preselected items. Maybe you make the reservations at the restaurant YOU want to go to, and he just has to get dressed on time. Or maybe, just maybe, you give yourself a present all year long.
I never used to pamper myself. I managed to turn into a classic "working mommy"--40 pounds overweight wearing the same dark-blue sweat pants every day, while running 20 errands for an ungrateful family that treated a wet towel on the floor like a live boa constrictor, fleeing in terror even as they dropped it. I looked up one day at the "show mommies" driving their shining SUVs, with their capri pants and matching clingy low-cut tops, talking on their cell phones while they waited in line at Jamba Juice, Starbucks or Willow Street Pizza. They seemed to spend all their children's school hours working on themselves--at the gym, at the boutiques wandering the Avenue with their friends--and I decided to join them before it was too late.
After all was said and done, one of the best things on my make-over list was taking back my hands. Last spring I realized that the last time there was paint on those cut-to-the-quick nails was when the doctor yelled, "Just one more push now, Debi!" I needed a manicure. I started going to Willow Glen Nails on Lincoln, a little place that had just moved from Lucky's shopping center to a storefront on Lester Street. It only took one visit to make me a believer in the fine art of pampering. The owner, Mai, took my short, sad little hands in hers and turned them into the hands of a lady--no small feat after a life of floor-scrubbing, rocket-painting and bricklaying.
Within a month I was so hooked, I vowed never to give her up. If necessary, I would panhandle out at the Bird Avenue freeway exit, holding a sign reading, "Need money for manicure." My hands started to look so good, even my husband noticed--without a prompt!
The nails kept growing out, a little every week, until they got to the beautiful, graceful hands my grandmother nagged me about as a child; the kind of hands others judge you by. I loved finally wearing nail polish--but I wanted more. After four months of trying to grow them long enough to hold a nice shade of red, I couldn't stop. Every visit, Mai would gently take my hands and ask if she should trim my ever-growing talons. I would laugh and shake my head. I wanted them just a tad longer.
First they were long enough for dark red, then for snappy red and then, well, then I started getting into designer nails. By September, I was looking at the stencil designs on Mai's walls and dreaming about what we could do for Halloween. I was also losing my ability to function in the real world. First I lost the ability to type with more than two fingers. Then, I realized I couldn't pick up small change off hard surfaces, grasp Lego end caps or poke small phone buttons. But my nails looked great when we painted witches, full moons, ghosts and pumpkins on them in October.
Pretty soon I couldn't dig into the bottom of my purse, pull out wet laundry or pull up the zippers on any pair of pants. But we got through Halloween and I was lusting for shiny nail jewels for December. I was also begging my 6-year-old to button all my clothes because I couldn't navigate the holes with the claws I was sporting.
About the time I almost put out my eye trying to get mascara on, I knew I'd reached the end of my rope, and with tears, I had Mai cut back the "look-at-me-I-don't-do-housework" nails, returning them to their now serviceable state. I have given myself the gift of indulgence this year, and my hands are very nice now, but they are not what they once were. The dragon lady has left the building.
Readers can contact Deborah at DTHollis@metronews.com.
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
