Sometimes a revelation can be just at your fingertips. Literally.

I recently walked into a recommended nail boutique on the north end of London and asked what they could do for me.

There were plenty of staff there, and a number of young women getting their hands and feet done, but I happened to get the owner herself, just by luck. While she worked on me she was keeping everyone else in line in one of her other two languages besides English.

So, this was a manicure. The word itself has been the biggest deterrent to a guy raised on a farm where rough hands and chipped nails were a given. Manicures were something that only polished professional men got, back in the day. There was disdain for those who did, like Dan Ackroyd’s character in Trading Places. Or, at least in my mind there was no way I would ever stoop to getting a manicure.

These days there are nail boutiques everywhere, and the clientele is mostly young women getting their nails lengthened and painted. Which wasn’t really my thing either, so how did the mani happen?

It’s a topic that ranks right up there with talking about prostate........

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