Sometimes a guy needs to have his nails done.
I’m obsessed with filing my fingernails’ sharp corners. I even buy sandpaper sticks. It’s all because I broke my wrist six years ago this month.
Breaking a wrist doesn’t hurt as much as you might think. It didn’t hurt at all until later that night.
I crashed my bicycle. I stuck out my right arm to catch myself, but my face hit the pavement anyway. A split second later I was standing on the sidewalk, unsure how I got there.
A woman said, “I’m a physician’s assistant. We need to do a status check.”
“I think I’m fine.”
“I think you broke your wrist. And you hit your face on the pavement.”
“Yeah, I can taste blood.” I started yanking on my teeth.
“Don’t do that!” She said.
“Ok, look. The ER is three blocks away. Are you okay to walk? My husband has your bike.”
The problem with wearing a cast is that it itches, but you can’t scratch through it.
The cast also makes your hand sweat, which causes your hand to smell like feet after a long, sweaty day. People just look at you move on over.
And you have to do everything one-handed.
But there are solutions:
- Unbend a metal hangar so you can stick it down the cast and scratch the itch. Don’t tell the doctor you did this because he won’t approve.
- Buy some cheap cologne. Dilute it with water if you need to. Spray it down the cast onto the palm of your hand to kill the stank.
- Buttoning a shirt one-handed is doable with practice. Buy a pair of slip-on shoes.
There was one thing I just couldn’t do, though. With my fingers and thumb immobilized, the fingernails on my left hand grew into a claw.
I looked like Freddy Krueger. Neighborhood children ran screaming for their mommies.
One day I was walking down the street feeling like an outcast, traumatized about how ugly I’d become.
Then I saw it.
The sign said Princess Nail Salon.
“I bet they have fingernail cutter people in there,” I thought to myself.
I walked in.
“Do you have an appointment,” the lady asked.
“No. But I have a claw.”
“That’s not a claw,” she informed me.
“Can you make it go away?”
“Well, my last appointment was a no-show, so have a seat.”
She cut my nails. And then she blew my mind. She took out a sandpaper stick and make the sharp edges go away.
“It’s not sandpaper, it’s an emery board.”
“Sandpaper stick is a better name.”
“No, it’s not.”
Deciding to skip the nail polish, I thanked her and left Princess no longer feeling like a hideous beast.
To this day I still buy sandpaper sticks.