When my grandma was here the weekend before last, we were at a local mall when we were inspired to indulge in a little nail beautification. My grandma got a manicure and pedicure, and I got tips put on. I can't speak for my grandma, but I walked out of the salon feeling very glamorous. My fingernails haven't had so much clearance past my fingertip since I was five or six, which is when I picked up the habit of biting my nails. (I wanted to be like my mom's friend's oldest son, who was a few years older than me and thus was the epitome of cool. If nail biting was good enough for him, then it was good enough for me.)
The problem is, I'm entirely unused to having fingernails which means I'm a complete menace not only to myself but to everyone else. After a few days of weilding these bad boys, I had had enough bad experiences to make me completely afraid of handling either of the two babies I see on a regular basis. Also, after loading Henry into the car one day after the park, I nearly ripped an entire nail off when I got it caught on something. It was terrible. I cursed. A lot.
Henry's been the recipient of enough scratches that I think by this morning he'd decided he'd had enough. It's about time for me to clip his toenails, and he must have sensed this because he wasted no time this morning in using me for leverage, "slipping", and giving me quite the little gash down the front of my lower leg. I'm convinced he did it on purpose. I'm also convinced I probably deserved it.