Saturday, October 23, 2010

Hard as.

(Well something had to shift Ginger, Sporty and the other ladies off the top spot. They were beginning to get on my nerves a touch.)

So. This week, for the first time in almost twenty five years, I had to cut my nails. All ten of them.

I was a bit rusty. It took a few goes. And I bet I'm not the only one who visibly winces every time those clipper things ping bits of your keratin plates off and into the dark recesses behind the toilet seat.

You see, I've been biting my nails since I was six. They've more or less been my main source of protein during that time. Seriously. Recycling or what? I've often bitten them so low they bleed. Or hang. Or hurt because I've done that thing where you bite a tiny bit off the end but then pull that up to peel a wee thin layer of nail stuff off the front right down to the root, and when I've pulled it off a weird slip of it still remains underneath the eponychium (thank you, Wikipedia). Or ripped off surrounding bits of skin. Eeeeeech! Sorry.

Nervous tic, I suppose. They've definitely always suffered more when I'm stressed or worried. It's quite disgusting, really. In moments of panic, I've had half the fingers of one hand wodged into my frantically chewing gob. Ur.

And even when I have managed to proudly garden up three or four, so they at least have some white at the tips (usually under threat or bribery from my gran), they've been so flimsy and thin they break really easily. Which is disheartening. So I gave up trying. I even got to quite like the taste of that stuff you could paint on to make them taste yucky. Pavlovian response or what.

As a consequence of all this, I've always found blokes with good, solid, well kept but not overly fancy nails strangely attractive..

But then, while I was on holiday a few weeks ago, I just stopped.

Just like that.

Without even trying or thinking about it. All ten fingers. In the past I've always allowed myself the thumbs or forefingers as sacrifices to try and keep my mouth away from the others.

These are strange times.

And they are quite strong. Only one broke, and it grew back really quickly.

Which means I've been able to discover something; nails rock! No, really. I know most of you already know this, but you can use them for loads of really useful things.


- opening cans and tins that have ring pulls, without the aid of nearby teaspoons
- scratching bits of you
- picking at stuff (accidentally gave myself a nosebleed...)
- scraping off stuff
- doing that tapping your nails thing when you're bored or thinking like they do in films.

They're brilliant! Rev! Va! Lation!

Then yesterday, I realised that I've started pulling out individual facial hairs instead of biting my nails.


In other news; I'm thinking of setting up shop again with a new blog, amended identity and general fresh start. Lots has been happening lately I need to write about. Watch this space. I AIN'T DEAD!


LaLa said...

I'm a nail-biter too! At least I was, similar to yourself I just sort of.. stopped. But not quite, if I am watching a particularly tense movie I'll munch them all off again - but it's nowhere near the nail feasts of yesterday.

Can't wait to hear about your new blog venture!

Tim Footman said...

When my mother was a child, she used to bite her toenails.

Boz said...

Lala - cheers for the blog advice!

Tim - I'm left mildly surprised you had a mother. I think I somehow imagined you just.. happened. Popping into existence fully-formed.