I went to use my delicate little manicure scissors the other day. The ones with the faux tortoise shell grip that I've had since 1983. Some women pride themselves in being on the cutting edge of beauty products with those wrinkle eliminators or the facelift in a bottle, hair brighteners, eye pouch deflators and all such ablutions from the world of the super-models, Wonder Bras and Victoria's Secret. I'd be willing to bet, though, that just about every woman over 40 has at least one favorite item that dates back to a time when products were more simple and practical. A product that they found to look just right or to work in exactly a way that they, as an individual, are comfortable with, so that they have habitually made a permanent place for said product in the prime real estate of the family bathroom cabinet.
Aside perhaps from Revlon lipstick Moon drop series, color #450 amethyst smoke, those scissors, are my cosmetic comfort tool. I received them in an antique manicure set from a thoughtful man I was dating way back in 1983. The set came with an array of important looking devices that, by virtue of owning them, afforded me, I thought, a place in the interior of those in the know on beauty secrets of the sophisticated set. All of the implements had faux tortoise shell grips, as did the scissors. I know it is faux tortoise shell because that's what the antique store tag identified the material as “Faux Tortoise Shell.” Faux, because I'm sure that any sophisticated beauty such as I thought myself to be, would not consider usage of implements, no matter how convenient, that were classified as fake, imitation, ersatz or any other name that would identify said implements as phony. That would reveal me as a fraud in my know-how of the beauty world. Faux, is French. And we all know that anything French is just dripping with sensuality and beauty know-how. Which is why, I'm sure that the “Faux Tortoise Shell” manicure set is lovingly protected in a silky satin roll, providing each tool with its own little resting place. Its own private space to which it is returned after toiling upon my nails to create gleaming buffed fingertip pearls, neat cuticles, evenly trimmed nails and ah well I really don't know what else. The set includes 9 items, most of which I still have no idea what purpose they serve but there they are, important must-haves of fingernail beauty and maintenance for those in the know.
I'm proud that after 25 years, I still have all the pieces of the Faux Tortoise Shell manicure set- (Did I mention the F.T.S. is pink? Yes pink, obviously to further highlight to the less beautifically-abled that anyone handling these items is not only chic and in vogue, but the epitome of femininity as well.) So, the F.T.S. set is intact and wrapped in the pink silky satin envelope, which is luxuriously encased in beautifully crafted “Faux Snakeskin” made out of “Genuine Leather.” The tag sewn into the, no doubt, faux silk, satin, tells me this set is “Premium” should there be any doubt.
I have on many occasions, (all when I was single) lit candles around the bathtub and soaked until- well until I was bored- and then patted myself dry with a plush towel. Patting because that's how those other beauties on television soap operas and in magazine ads dry off, as not to abrade their delicate skin. I'd pat myself dry and put on my most luxurious robe to retire to the boudoir, (again, notice the French) and begin to primp with my creams and gels, hair irons and powders, but none identified me as the feminine beauty that I imagined myself to be, wrapped in my faux silk robe with the subtle hearts shimmering in the material, as did the “Faux Tortoise Shell, Genuine Leather, Premium” manicure set, with the tools, each in their respective space, gleaming like a surgeon's, all safely tucked until I unrolled the case and went to work. I filed tips and removed cuticles, I buffed and polished, I evened and double coated. I inspected and admired the job and was pleased. I did some obligatory flouncing around the boudoir and inspected my hands from several angles. The slightly shocked, hand to the throat, move. Lovely. The sophisticated extended hands, not the all business handshake for power lunches, but the two-handed reach reserved for dear friends and funerals. Perfection! I reveled in my femininity. I felt sexy and secure in my bachelorette, 4-room apartment. Mistress of my Universe, ready to take on the world.
