"Fiberglass?" she says, grabbing my left hand and bringing it close to her eyes to scrutinize the perfection of the fill.

"Acrylic. I can't deal with having the same material my skis are made of on my hands. Besides, the chemicals they use to bind it really stink," I reply, not at all discomposed by having Tina Marie breathe all over my hand while she twists and turns it to get the best light. She nods seriously and holds her own hand out, palm down and fingers spread wide, to show me her newly acquired nails.

"Fabulous," I say admiringly. "Is that Magenta Sunrise or Blood Rose?"

She smirks, preening a little. "Caribbean Calypso. Isn't it boss? James picked it out. I was going to have a French buff but he talked me into this." We both stare at the deep ruby sheen glowing on her fingernails and sigh in mutual agreement that James definitely knows his colors.

You might think this is female bonding, standard girl stuff on the order of clothes shopping or discussing boyfriends. You would be wrong. This, my friends, is nothing short of Female Empowerment. For every girl who was a tomboy or an irredeemable nail biter, having false fingernails is a major piece of personal mojo. Suddenly we're walking tall, exuding confidence, feeling sorry for anyone who isn't us. Our hands, for the first time in our lives, look utterly feminine. They appear longer, slimmer, more elegant. Rings look better on our fingers. But best of all, we get to buy lots of little bottles of nail polish.

After all, the real reason women like makeup is because it comes in so many delightful little pots and tubes with French names. No woman will deny this if confronted by the truth, though they might act slightly guilty and try to justify it by claiming they can actually tell the difference in their skin when they use L'eau du Watteau Superhydrative Biolage Créme de Nuit instead of good old soap and water. What it really boils down to is a deep emotional need to possess exquisite glass containers and tiny crystalline bottles of mysterious liquids and powders which are to somehow transform us into the breathtaking perfection of female beauty. (I guess it's the old Sorcerer's Apprentice mentality. Either that or some people still think there's a way to transmute base metals into gold.) But the business of false nails is distinctively different even if there is a crossover in the irresistibility of the beautifully packaged containers.

For what every girl discovers when she gets her first set of false nails is that an amazing transformation has taken place on her own grubby, stubby hands. She becomes Woman, the epitome of sleek and sophisticated femininity. When she reaches for a pen now the act is imbued with glamour. Whose elegant hand is that holding that pen? What might not that hand write with such well-manicured nails? Clearly, the owner of such highly polished and cuticle-free nails is someone who has time for luxuries and is willing to pay for them. Gone is the visual reinforcement of childishness. In its place are hands that can compete with any privileged, soignée Ladies Who Lunch. When it comes to separating the girls from the women, nails count.

I'm not saying false nails can cure cancer or make you a better person. I'm certainly not suggesting that one must have false nails in order to be truly feminine. All I'm saying is, watch what happens when a woman gets her nails done. Suddenly she's holding her fingers in attractive positions, unconsciously or consciously showing them off. She hands you something with a little flourish. She cocks her wrist slightly and learns to rest her nails against a complementary color such as her blouse or her lipstick. She's flirting with her hands. Interpreting the message is akin to understanding the language of flowers (now an esoteric exercise but once a high art) or the answers signaled by the position of a lady's fan in the 18th century. A certain type of woman wear a certain range of nail colors. I am absolutely not kidding. And Madame Lucy is going to Reveal All.

Let's face it, a sweet young thing wouldn't be caught dead wearing nasty red nail polish. She'll go for the pastels or best of all the "natural" nail, so contrived as to appear to be her own with just the right amount of pink and an extension of white on the end. A light mauve, a pearly pink, or at most a deep rose proclaims the wearer to be girlish, young (or young-at-heart) and very, very nice.

The more adventurous sort will try a rainbow of glistening reds and pinks. This is the magpie woman, unable to resist a glossy shade of anything. She will always do her nails in silver glitter for Halloween. She loves to match the color of her outfits, spending hours every week taking color off and putting new color on. She also dyes her hair but that's another issue and article entirely.

The woman in wine or jewel tones is self-confident and rather sophisticated. She probably owns a Very Good watch and several Very Good pieces of clothing that seem quite plain to the untutored eye. Sherry, burgundy, champagne, ivory, amber, anything discreet but rich will grace her hands. She is never a blonde.

The rebellious types go for bold and unusual shades: corals, crimson, black, blue, anything that says to an observer "I'm not hiding myself. Love me, love my bad taste." Rebels wear orangy red, so different from a high gloss, blue-tinged Chanel red. College students and rock and roll chicks fall into this category. Most women go through this phase before settling into their own niche. Even so, sometimes only a really trashy red will do, especially if you're wearing all black.

Finding someone who will do your nails the way you like them is fraught with tension and high drama. Women trade names of manicurists like family recipes or military secrets, withholding information if they fear their favorite will become too busy or too self-important. Which is pretty silly because any really decent manicurist is already busy and self-important. Scheduling nail appointments can be hellish. And believe me, false nails are a major investment of time and money.

There's the initial session which takes about two hours and costs about $60, longer and more if extensions have to be added (and they almost always do or you'd be wearing your own nails, wouldn't you?). Then there's the fill, ideally done every two weeks at a cost of $25 to $35. A fill takes a mere half-hour on the average.

Occasionally I miss an appointment for one reason or another. Should this occur the dreaded gap appears, where my own nail can clearly be seen peeping between the cuticle and the edge of the false nail. No amount of nail polish can hide the gap and it is a familiar sight to false nail wearers. It's really the only way anyone can tell if a woman is wearing her own nails or not. If you can afford it and your manicurist is good, the gap never appears. If you let it go on for too long you run the risk of snapping off the false nail because it isn't properly anchored at the base. This hurts far worse than breaking your own because the false ones are actually bonded to your nails with industrial-strength quick seal glue. This is not an operation for the squeamish. But it's worth the bother to the nail-wearer.

Do men detect this state of grace? Fat chance. It's a subtle thing. It might be the equivalent of owning real pearls, another symbol of privilege. It's definitely a class thing. For a woman who has to do her own housework cannot maintain her nails in pristine condition. Which is why the technology of false nails is such a boon to modern women. No one has to know they work for a living. No one can tell just by looking at them that they have to do their own dishes.

It's something that women do purely for themselves. Other women admire a beautiful manicure. Men won't notice unless they themselves get manicures (or give them, I suppose). Men sense only in a dim, far-off sort of way that a woman is dressed for success with nails to match. They indicate faint approval or distaste according to their nature and then they go back to grunting over the Packers. But most women recognize the time and artistry that go into another woman's exquisitely done nails and they are quick to compliment and compare notes.

Getting one's nails done isn't as intense as shoe shopping nor as competitive as finding the perfect hairstylist but it's a common thread that binds a large portion of my gender together in a mutual admiration society. As we stride through our modern, hectic, chaotic life it's a chance to sit back, relax, and allow a bit of luxurious pampering to carry us beyond the demands of the outside world.

Time to go. I have an appointment with James. I'm going to ask him to try that truly fetching shade of Caribbean Calypso on me. It will match my new outfit.

[First published in Southern Gothic, January 1994]

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