Thanks to that wondrous editorial system common to all newspaper offices, by the time you read the following 550 words there shouldn't be a typo among them. But were it not for that system, my sentences might look something like this: cbfn jr wyuve nlkdugb. This is not my fault; it is the fault, principally, of my revoltingly long fingernails and, secondly, of my friend Lucy. Several months ago, Lucy took it upon herself to introduce me to the concept of gel manicures. "They're brilliant, darling," she said.
And indeed they are, in many ways. They are a beefier alternative to those brisk, 30-minute shape-and-polish affairs touted in nail salons across the land. Known elsewhere as the "everlasting manicure", the gel process takes approximately an hour, involves placing your hands under a UV light at various intervals and, alarmingly, often sees the person administering the gel pull on an H1N1-type mask (the smell is not at all fragrant). The result, however, is a set of nails covered in a shiny gel polish that does not chip, crack or move at all. In fact, so indestructible is the gel that you should return to the salon when you wish to have it removed to avoid ripping off the poor nails.
In theory, wonderful. You can pretend to be a glossy, high-maintenance Jackie Collins heroine who spends her days sunbathing and flitting from nail appointment to lunch to facialist. You don't have to worry about smudging your colour mere seconds after departing from the salon and you can leave it for weeks without a care. Except that is what I have lazily done, and now my nails have grown into long, vulgar talons. Perhaps I shall turn into that Indian man from my brother's Guinness World Records, whose nails grew so long that veins started pushing their way up them. I could whip my hands out at parties and claim them as my trick.
But what a nuisance long nails are. In their natural state they were always flaking and dropping off. Now I cannot type properly without hitting erroneous keys, wash my hair without slashing my scalp or even pick my nose. I wore tights last week and laddered them before even getting into the office. And was the BlackBerry made for people with elfish hands? I have not been able to tap out a message on mine for weeks now, so disabled am I by these claws.
When I was a teenager, a rumour went round my school that anyone who grew her nails to one centimetre could clip them off and give them to the Body Shop in return for £1 a nail (Dh6). In its laboratories, little pieces of nail (instead of animals, you see) would be used for trying out fruity bath products. Needless to say, none of us managed it, and yet what a bounty I could offer them now . But in the unlikely event that the Body Shop is (or ever was) making such an offer, I shall this week soldier back to the salon. It is time, finally, for a cut-off job. Let's just hope those veins haven't quite made it yet, eh?