Sunday, October 17, 2010

Thing 185 Get a Manicure

Don't know if you've noticed this by the way but half of 366 is 183. This is Thing 185. More than half way. More than six months of doing something new, every day. Some of them have been small and not significant. Some of them have been monumental and enormous. The problem with the Project, is that after six months of doing something new every day, nothing I say is surprising anymore. Nothing. Thorny Wire rang for a chat this evening: "What are you at?" Going for a manicure. "Grand. See you later on so".

I would have thought that a man telling his brother that he's going for a manicure should provoke some form of response, specifically, and abusive response about me having girl bits instead of boy bits. Nope. Nothing. No one's surprised by anything I do anymore.

I guess that's to be expected when you announce to the world via the internet, that you drink your own pee.
What was some fun, surprise wise, was the look on the girl's face in the beauty salon when I walked in and asked for a manicure. In case you were wondering Eternal Beauty salon on Cruise's Street, so all of you men out there who care about having silky soft hands can form an orderly queue there. The girl at the counter looked positively stunned by the suggestion that I should want a manicure. I'm such clown, I do this nonsense for the amusement of people's reactions. I'm a reaction junkie. Her facial expression was my crack.

All in all, this might have been the girliest experience ever. Stacks of OKAY and HELLO magazine with pictures of Simon Cowell (shudder) and Cheryl Cole (whatever the opposite of shudder is) on the front. Scented candles. A little wall-mounted TV with Bridget Jones' Diary playing on it in the waiting room. Sitting awkwardly and clearly out of place was the chubby man with the sci fi novel sticking out of the top of the shopping bag. Incongruous to say the least.
I can see why this is a relaxing thing for women to do mind you. It's hard not to be chilled by the scented candles, and while "soft hands" means a deft rugby pass to me, and nothing to do with grooming, I quite enjoyed the hand massage and the hand warmers I had to wear. Token Northy tells me I have sausage fingers. I know for a fact that I've got two of the hairiest fore-arms you're likely to see anywhere. Maintaining the semblance of some kind of care system for my hands is never going to be a priority. Twenty five euro is better spent on DVDs and petrol for the car (in that order). But I've got to hand it to them (pun intentional, and hilarious), the manicure junkies might be on to something in terms of relaxation.

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