All polished up

It’s called “Hopelessly in Love.” And there’s no question I’m hopeless. Some things ring truer than the school bell that heralds Thanksgiving break.

I’m hopelessly talking about nail polish, gang. That slap-happy, colorful goop we slather on the ends of our limbs above and below to glisten and glow like Ginger Rogers when she was Dancing in the Dark with Fred. Go, Ginger.

Switching from “I’m Not Really a Waitress” to “Friar Friar Pants on Fire” and then back to “Hopelessly in Love” throws me into delirium. Can you Tapas That?

Yes, I’m writing about thoroughly meaningless jabber, but jiving about fingers and toes is a critical component of our daily dance, right?

“Pick out a color, please!”

Just walk into “Top Nails” on T.O. Boulevard near the Civic Arts Plaza and you’ll be greeted by Steve, the ever-ebullient and masterful major domo of nail artistry, who magically transforms chewed-up, Grand Canyon-y, gnarly worthless nails into enamel delights. Paws that Cleopatra would gladly wrap around that rascal Mark Antony. Orchestrating finger loveliness, Steve so diplomatically assures me that my nail needs will be resolved if I just shut up and sit my sorry derriere down.

“How are you, Kirby, I miss you!”

I miss you, too, and get this. We American gals spend around $7 billion yearly on our nails. With almost 100,000 nail salons and more than 500,000 manicurists, it’s big bidness.

“We’re ready now, number 7, please.”

Okay, 7, here I come. With the finesse of Dumbo, I settle myself into an effervescent spaloungerette that looks like a remnant from Apollo 13 and, if not properly primed, could eject me into the dry cleaning rack next door. Using its water supply, I could survive on the moon for a decade.

To no one’s surprise, I trip into place, launching my purse onto the lap of the customer next to me and flinging an elbow into the manicurist’s jaw. Nothing is foolproof to a sufficiently talented fool.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I plop into position. The toes drop in, at last. Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh. I hand over “Hopelessly” for my fingers and “You’re a Pisa Work” for my toes. Somebody needs to come up with “Drop Off All My Cares and Woes.” What color would that be? Gotta be Top Nails pink!

“You want callous removal?” Darn right. Get out your chain saw. These puppies look like I just crossed the Gobi Desert barefoot. And all I’ve been doing is watching reruns of “Frasier.”

I go by the seasonal chart. Earth colors in the fall. Reds and burgundies in the winter. Pastel pinks and apricots in spring and summer. And if I anticipate a teeth cleaning or call to the DMV, I just might grab “Teal the Cows Come Home” or the ever-popular vibrant yellow known as “Need Sunglasses.”

I’m a tad more adventurous in the toe department, but for the front paws I swing with neutrals in an effort to look professional and elevate my credibility. Clearly, it doesn’t work.

“Kirby, are you comfortable? I’m glad to see you!” Steve scoots through the salon like Patton reviewing the troops, chanting orders to his minions and multitasking more than a six-limbed, double-tailed, three-headed monkey band.

Vietnam might have been Steve’s first country, but today he’s a sterling example of American enterprise and ingenuity. The guy couldn’t work harder or be more dedicated. He’s my American hero, that’s for sure. Too bad GM didn’t hire him. Can you imagine the polish shine on those cars?

“I like your short haircut!” Steve has such good taste.

Did you know that nail polish has been around since at least 3000 BC? It originated in China and originally was a mix of beeswax, gelatin, gum Arabic and egg whites. Sounds like a project for Martha Stewart. Count me out. I’ll stick with popovers.

“Do you want flower? How about ‘Autumn Leaves’?”

No, I prefer a slather of “Hopelessly,” but next time I just might go for “Moon over Mumbai.” I haven’t been mooned for a while.

You can e-mail Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.