Nearly every lesbian porn film I've ever seen has featured
'lesbians' with ridiculously long red fingernails. They're always
bouncing around on a bed surrounded by dozens of dildos and
slashing at each other like Freddie Krueger. These movies should be
reclassified as horror.
The lesbians I know have well-trimmed nails, and personally
speaking I love a manicure. Maybe it's got something to do with the
word itself. 'Man-i-cure' sounds like some sort of lesbian
conversion camp.
The thing is, in all the years I've been going to the same nail
salon, I've never actually 'come out' to the girls who work there.
They're straighter than a Brazilian blow dry. Call me
old-fashioned, but I'm not comfortable telling a straight girl that
I'm a lesbian while she's holding my hand in hers.
But because I haven't told them they think I'm a total nail fail.
They have no idea that growing my nails could mean enforced
celibacy, they think it's lack of effort. So every time I visit I
have to go through the charade of promising to try and grow my
nails next time. I really need to set them straight.
I arrive and join the long row of other clients sitting shoulder
to shoulder and clucking away about man troubles like a load of
battery beauty hens. The woman next to me is reading aloud from
Grazia. I'm pretty sure the only DIVA she's ever heard of is Kim
Kardashian.
The nail technician takes one look at my nails and says, "Look at
this! You promised you'd grow them. What are these?" Er, my
hands? She holds up my neatly nipped nails, and all the other
customers look at me as if so say, "Ah bless". I'm cut to the
quick. I feel like I'm 4 years old and I've just crashed my
parents' dinner party wearing my mum's heels.
"Don't you want nails like these?" she says gesturing at the
impressively long and polished nails of the woman next to me. No
actually. My girlfriend would need to fashion a falconry glove for
her privates if I had those talons. She'd take one look at my
Edward Scissorhands and close up like a clam.
"I bet your boyfriend would like it." she declares, playing to the
crowd. I sense that she's not going to let me off this hook this
time. I need to put an end to this charade once and for all.
"Girlfriend" I correct her. The 'hens' tense. There's an
uncomfortable silence, and the sound of Grazia pages gently blowing
across the nail dryer.
"Er. What colour have you chosen?" She's pretending that nothing's
happened. I pass her the bottle. "Ah", she says swallowing hard,
"Mink Muffs. Good choice."
