GUEST BLOG
By Tabitha Ronson Pre Master A, I was a regular nail bar visitor. Every Thursday after work, I would take my spot alongside other clients and let Janine get to work on taming my talons.
It was a ritual that not only left me feeling more feminine but also more in touch with life.
For those 20 to 30minutes, I would engage in putting the world to rights and sharing histories with my fellow regulars. It was a modern day equivalent of visiting the baths in Ancient Rome.
I had forgotten just how much fun the ritual was until, on a whim, I popped into a nail bar that was new to me.
The latest health scare suggested I might be risking fungal infections and puss-filled cuticles but I pressed on.
I was lucky there was a spare slot. I took my seat and let Albert loose on my weakened, unsightly fingernails.
This was a regulars' haunt. At first, like in Sergio Leone movie when an out-of-town stranger walks into a saloon, I was viewed with suspicion. The conversation, loud on entering, became muted. I had to earn my place, their trust.
I eyed the nails of the woman next to me. Acrylic, fuchsia, long stiletto. Even though I've been out of the game for almost seven years, I was pleased I hadn't lost my touch.
"I'm going on a first date," I lied. "What would you recommend?" This was not directed towards Albert but to my fellow nail barers.
It worked. The five customers each chipped in with their suggestions, each playfully poo-poohing the others' ideas.
The ice broken, I spent the next half-an-hour discussing with my new BFFs everything from fostering (one woman, already a mother of four, was considering the option because "I want another baby but I think I've already done my duty to the human race") and Nigel Farage (marry, snog, avoid? - you'd be surprised at the responses) to the merits of Aldi's Peach Bellini and Amal Alamuddin ("just how long will it be before she's in the White House?")
Working Mum, currently admiring my petrol blue almond shaped acrylic talons and counting down the days until I get my infills.
