A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 19, 2003 || 8:59 am

I’m all about smell and texture today: “Mmmmmm.”

The richness of how things feel against my fingertips and cheek, the shadow of scent playing sweet or pungent in my nostrils have totally captured my attentions thus far this morning. I’m always amazed when this happens, because there is this overwhelming sense of wonder(ment?) that comes with it. Like being three and in awe of the world again. I am dumb with senses and it’s refreshing.

Also, oddly enough, I seem to be fascinated with my hair and my cleavage today. I keep catching myself running eyes and fingers over one or the other and smiling.

On a related note, I got fingernails last week. The cute little judgemental manicurist kept looking at my stubby, bitten ones and shaking his head, clucking his tongue. Then he would mutter to himself in Korean.

“Normally they really aren’t this bad,” I reassured him in my best I’m-not-making-excuses tone, “I’ve just had a really, erm, rough week.”

You see, I got to looking at my hands and realized that while I take awesome care of the skin elsewhere on my body, I’ve shown no special care for my paws over the years. They are very capable hands, to be sure, long-fingered and seemingly always busy fixing, doing, creating, animated (because words are just not enough, and besides, it’s my right as someone of woplike heritage and Southern expressiveness to dance them about as I speak). They sport the scars of a life lived: A couple fingers and the back of the right one bear the long, thin lines of guitar stringings/pluckings gone awry, the back of the left subtly shows bad choices via a white, puckered half-moon that was inflicted by a lit cigarette on a cold winter’s eve (“This is your lesson,” he jack-o-lantern grinned at me while grinding it there). The mound above my right thumb still has the pale speckling far beneath the skin I acquired when nearly having said thumb ripped off by a running poultry belt. The only things that saved it were an immense lung capacity that enabled me to bellow loud enough to be heard (over the clanging machinery and earplugs and hissing cacophony of hundreds of steam guns washing chemicals in unison) and my mother’s cameo ring….the one that my father had custom-made for her on their first anniversary and the one that, according to policy, I was not supposed to be wearing on the plant floor. Thank God for my big mouth and penchant for disregarding rules.

So I was looking at my hands, and while they’ve not aged so that anyone else would notice, the years of laundry and gripping pens and washing dishes and throwing balls and remembering to moisturize only after every third or so washing have started to take a recognizable toll. I don’t want to be one of those crepe-handed women in their forties, young and vital everywhere else, hands betraying the age I feel and the rest of me looks. So yes, panic in your thirties and start playing catch-up.

Plus, there is the matter of waking up one day and finding that, despite my three decades of escaping their fates, suddenly I have the stubby fingers of all my uncles; the ones whose nails are so bitten back into the beds that they’ve become a wavy fucking monstrosity and you can no longer tell where the nail ends and the finger begins. Ewwww.

Improving self inside and out seems to be the theme as of late, so in keeping with that I went boldly to the nail salon, which is somewhat like a dentist’s visit for me. There are little scrapy things and drilly things and I desperately wish there was laughing gas for manicures. Or that the experience could be like childbirth in the fifties: Knock me out. Work your mojo. I awake to find a bouncing set of shiny new nails. Ohhh, that it were so.

But I suffered for beauty, and the Manicure Man (strange Heart parody running through my head, oh yessir) quite intelligently made the nails shortish so that the system would not be thrown into complete shock. I had them polished a lovely iced champagne color to match my favorite shade of lipstick and stared at/fiddled with them novelly for the first three or so days, flicking them and clicking them and tapping them. Then I began to grumble somethings along the lines of “fuckingfuckingfingernails, allusintheway, cain’t do halfawhat I needa do…fingernails, feh”, but I will perservere. Getting them filled (they are due now, as a matter of fact) for six to eight weeks will prolly significantly weaken the nailbeds beneath them, but by then I figure that my own nails will be at a decenty length and I will have grown somewhat accustomed to them, typos notwithstanding. Yes, NOTWITHSTANDING. I can justify the somewhat apalling expense by namechecking it under the heading of ‘general health’ rather than having it sit wiggling there under ‘SO VAIN’, vexing me as gauchely unnecessary.

Being a nailbiter all these years signifies an incredible lack of discipline, but having ugly hands made it all the more excusable to clench a fist in anger or dangle a cigarette between long, graceful fingers. Both of these are rendered more difficult with actual nails, somehow….aesthetically and theoretically.

The strangest things in life sprout symbolism. And vanity. And ruminations on both.

As a postscript, because I promised melly, a photo of my new make-me-see-when-I’m-sick-of-contacts thingies:

Boys don’t make passes, my ass.

11 worked it out »

  1. Gary 8.19.2003

    Somehow I was expecting a picture of the fingernails or at least one, the middle one. I guess its time to get my mind out of the sewer.

  2. c 8.19.2003

    i have nothing good to say these days, but felt the need to leave a passing hello.

    hope you are well…

  3. Jett 8.19.2003

    Gary, pretty nails are also not wont to flying the international symbol of ‘fuckyoubuddyguy’. We’re about self-improvement; work with me here.

    Weddingstrain Boy: I feel ya. You’ve been in my thoughts, trust me. I’ve wanted to call, but hesitant because all of the goings-on.

  4. Patti 8.19.2003

    My, how you bear a striking resemblence to Alicia Silverstone in that picture. Hrmmmm. Hrmmm. :-)

  5. Patti 8.19.2003

    PS: Would you please fucking call me already? Pick a phone, any phone.

  6. Jett 8.19.2003

    Patti, no matter how many times you tell me that, I’ll not switch teams. Nice try.

  7. P. 8.19.2003

    That is so not what I was saying. :-/ Pass me a fork, would you? hooooooooochie!

  8. Stringing a guitar rates very highly as being one of my Alltime Biggest Fears… fears of the thing snapping and reaching deep into my iris, not to mention the understandable damage that doing it wrong can do to your digits. I sympathise.

  9. Kandy 8.20.2003

    I was hoping to see a pic of the nails too. I sympathize with the nail-biting thing, I broke down about a month ago and got the fake ones put on. Oh lord, they make me feel so less the tomboy I really am.

  10. I DO like them.

    And I am SO working on my microphone.

    Although, I will be sad when I can no longer practice what I so want to say, then play it back, hear nothing, and respond,”Oh no”.

  11. Holy Shit! I ran a sound check and now it works and now i can record as soon as my mother finds something to be other than here oh yeah!


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