Cuticles

Cuticles

What is going on with my cuticles? They are dry and splintery. Drawn to their imperfections, their little flecks beg me to pick. Have I developed eczema of the cuticle, or is this just another manifestation of my midlife moisture crisis?

I am parched. I'm in a drought. Even if I were to gulp down gallons of water, I’d still be as dry as a Texas lake bed. Like the prunes on my counter, I am puckering up. My skin is crumpling, my epidermis is weathering, and my prime is wilting.

I am in awe of what is happening to my body, and at the same time don't have a clue what to do about it. What does one do to combat dry cuticles? Are there creams? Are there incantations? Is there a God? How did I get overlooked when the How To manuals for these kinds of malady's were handed out? Did I get in the wrong line? Or was it that I didn't even know there was a line to get into?

A young friend of mine, and I mean young, not quite thirty, is peddling a snake oil, I mean cream, for use on one’s face to help reduce the signs of aging.

“I use it every night,” she tells me.

“For God sakes! Why? Your skin is as smooth as a baby’s ass!”

“Exactly,” she responds. “It’s the cream! You should try it.”

 “Do I need it?”

She looks at me like I’m either certifiably nuts or pathetically stupid.

“All you do is wash your face at bedtime, and while your face is still moist rub in the cream. In the morning simply rinse it off.”

“That’s too much work for me,” I protest. Then add, feeling a bit ashamed, that I actually don't wash my face every night, and I never wash it in the morning. She looks at me, mouth on the floor, eyes like saucers, Wile E. Coyote incredulous.

“You don't wash your face? But it says to on page 1,037 of The Manual.”

“What manual?”

“You know, The Manual,” she chides.

 I stare at her blankly.

“You didn't get The Manual?”

“No.”

“OH MY GOD! That means you don't know anything about anything! I'm surprised you're even still alive!”

“Holy shit! What the hell are you talking about? What manual? Can I get one of these manuals?”    

“No. It's a one-time thing. My mother gave me mine when I was six years old. Didn't your mother give you one?”

“No,” I say, my voice rising to a pitch only dogs can hear.  “No she didn't!”

Not knowing whether to feel betrayed or furious I start to tremble and wonder if my life might be in danger. I also begin to consider if being without this manual might be why I felt like such a geeky outsider while growing up, if this lack of manual might be the reason behind not knowing how to dress like the cool kids or how to flirt with the cool boys. I wonder if this lack of manual might be the reason I never knew what to do with my daughter's hair when she was young. At my best all I could manage were loosely bunched pigtails that stuck out at odd angles and misplaced headbands that were worn more like sweatbands.

“I'm screwed!” I shriek. “Woe is me! Woe is my daughter! I didn't know about The Manual! I didn’t give her a manual! She’s doomed! We’re doomed!”

Whack! My young friend slaps me hard across the face.

“Get a grip on yourself!” She yells. “I know for a fact that your daughter has The Manual. As you seemed to be a bit clueless, and your daughter’s hair looked like, well you know what it looked like; I pulled her aside when she was six and told her how to get The Manual.”

“Thank God!” Words of gratitude burst from my lips as I fall to my knees ready to kiss my friend’s bare feet.  “No wonder Hannah’s haircuts have always been so much more fashionable than mine. No wonder her skin is so clear and taut, her fingernails perfectly manicured. It all makes sense now. She got a manual. Thank God she got The Manual!”

Tears of relief tumble down my cheeks.

Raising my gaze I beseech, “What can I do? Am I doomed to have dry cuticles and a wrinkly face for the rest of my life?”

 My young friend kneels beside me, looks around in all directions and makes her voice as quite as a spy.

“I can't get you The Manual. You are too old and too dry, but when no one is around I will do my best to share with you the secrets contained therein.

“Please, don't risk your life for me. Clearly it's too late for me. What about your husband? What about your plans for a family? I don't want to put you at risk by helping me.”

“I have friends on the police force. If I get caught, I'm sure they'll go easy on me, let me off with a slap on the wrist, maybe make me miss a manicure or two. But I’m strong. I can survive. And besides, I like you Nancy. You make me laugh. Your cluelessness of how to be in the world, how to cook, how to clean, how to sew, I always thought it was an act. I thought you were practicing material for a standup routine you were developing. Now I see that it wasn't an act at all. So I feel pity for you, maybe a little disgust too, but mostly pity.”

I am so grateful for her pity. I’m ecstatic. Maybe there is hope for me after all. Maybe I won't have to live my life with cuticles that look like last year’s cornfield, ashamed that I am always ten steps behind my friends when it comes to anything female, perpetually confounded by how or even why one would cook a leg of lamb.  Maybe my young friend will be able to help me, save me from my arid and clueless life, right my ship before it beaches on the shores of hopelessness.