Getting into the car, I gave Veronica a poke in her side. Just playing around.
“Ow! Mommy that hurt!”
Whoops. I must have gotten her with my fingernail by accident.
I was already in the driver’s seat by then. I stretched my hand back into her car seat area and said “I have CLAWS!”
“Mommy! We don’t need to do that any more. Animals need to fight and use was to eat but we don’t.”
I looked at my fingernails. They are not that long, half an inch at most.
“They are not very good claws,” I reply. “Maybe I should cut them off. Is that what you think?”
She could be right. Mostly my fingernails disappoint me by breaking at inopportune times. They are not useful really.
So why does it feel so sad, to trim short that small crescent of white on my finger?
Once upon a time long nails were a sign of pampered luxury. Someone had long nails because he or she did not need to use hands for work.
I want to work, and to look like I’m working. Yet somehow my vanity is pleased to see my fingernails long.
Self image is a strange thing.