Hair, Nails, Youth
It was my Sunday night ritual for years. I would settle into the family room sofa to watch TV with Peter and the kids. And I would manicure my nails, usually with a fire engine red polish. If I was ambitious, I’d do a French manicure.
When a friend asked me where I had my nails done, I loved telling her that my manicurist was me.
On our way to dinner with that very friend the other night, I was bemoaning the state of my nails. Maybe it’s my celiac disease that robbed them of their strength. Or maybe just being older. My nails are always breaking and they are full of ridges. I keep them well filed and hope nobody notices.
In that same conversation, I was bemoaning the state of my hair. It used to be so thick that my hairdresser had to use a thinning shears. No more.
So, my beautifully manicured nails, and my thick tresses are gone.
As is my youth.