After fifty-four years
of biting my nails, I have kicked the habit and grown them long enough to treat
myself to a manicure. My nails are beautiful and if I could find my camera I’d
post a picture here just so you could admire them, too. I’ve discovered that a manicured hand looks
so much more feminine than my usual grubby fingers, but I’ve also discovered
why you don’t see many farmwives with lacquered nails.
Pretty hands require protection. Washing dishes? Pull on the latex gloves. Gardening?
Chore gloves, of course. Helping with
cattle? Leather work gloves. Peeling
apples and making applesauce? Disposable
gloves. Keeping up with all these gloves
is impossible. Plus, I can’t really work
as efficiently in them. My hands are
small and the extra fabric in the gloves is bunchy and bothersome. When I went in for the manicure, Heidi examined
my stains. “What’s all over your hands?”
she asked.
The brown stains on my cuticles were from cutting up apples for
applesauce. I tried wearing gloves but I
kept slashing the tips off with my knife so I gave up. The blue smudge was from the sheep marker I
used on Tuesday and the pink stains were from the beets I canned.
Heidi was able to clean up my mess and for the moment my
hands are pertly pretty. The thing about
trying to be a fashionable farm wife is you never know when the next farm
emergency will occur. This morning I had
just stepped out of the shower and was blow drying my hair into poufy
perfection when I heard a commotion. My
Own Farmer was out in the cattle lot whistling shrilly. That’s usually a signal for someone in the
family to see what he needs. Scott was
out there with him, so I assumed the summons was for him. But then the horn on the cattle truck began
blaring. I leaned out the window. “Do you need me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “two of the calves have escaped and I need
you to help us get them back in.”
Lovely. I pulled my
dirty sweatshirt over my bouffant do and ran outside. When I got back in the house my fluffy hair
was flat. So much for beauty.
The farm has
a different dress code from the rest of the world. I have been known to wear the same grubby
pants three days in a row if I know I’ll be getting dirty. No use creating extra laundry, but how
mortifying when unexpected company shows up.
I would like to be as beautiful as my non-farm friends are,
but it would require too many changes of clothing in a day, and keeping up with
too many pairs of gloves, so if you see me in town wearing muck boots, don’t shake
my hand unless you want to get yours dirty, too. Except on Wednesdays. That’s manicure day from now on, and if you
catch me before I make it to the farm, be sure to admire my fabulous
fingers.They won't look that way for long.
