There was a time in the late 90's when it was super cool to wear press on fake nails. I don't know why this was ever a good idea. By the time I got all the nails glued on I was already regretting it. First of all, they were way too long. You could not perform every day tasks with them on. How am I supposed to zip my pants or jacket, or tie my shoes with 2 inch daggers extending from my fingers? Also, they were kind of painful. The fake nails were always wider than my real nails so I would end up just gluing them to my skin which was no very comfortable for longer than like 15 minutes. The pain came again at the end when you had to rip them off. Or if one got ripped off before you were ready. Inevitably part of your real nail would get pulled off with the fake nail. That glue was very strong.
One day we were at Wal Mart and I had enough of my allowance left to buy a pack of fake nails. I decided that they were going to be perfect. I was not going to glue them crooked (which I did a lot), I was going to trim them to the perfect size, and not glue them to my skin. I could not wait to show up to school and show all the girls how awesome my nails were. I even imagined my teacher, Mrs. Flores, complementing my grown up nails. I asked Sarah Margaret to help me put them on so that the plan would work. I should have known better.
We got the first hand done and they were spectacular. None of my friends had fake nails as perfect as mine were. I was on top of the world. Sarah Margaret started on the next hand. She was holding my pointer finger and squeezing out the glue. I didn't notice, but the glue dripped off my finger and onto the bathroom counter. Sarah Margaret proceeded to push my finger onto the counter and press the nail down. In the process she had glued my finger to the counter! And like I said, that glue was strong. I pulled and pulled but my finger was stuck. We started calling for Mom and Dad to come rescue me. There was also another little problem with my finger. I had a big cut on it. I knew that all I had to do was pour nail polish remover all over my finger and let it soak, but that would burn like the fires of hell. Dad was quick to find a solution. He whipped out his pocket knife and offered to slide it between my finger and the counter. I started crying. I could just picture pulling up my finger and a whole layer of my skin was left where Dad had sliced it off. There was no way I was letting that happen. We could not think of anything else to try. The only option was nail polish remover.
We poured it on. I had to let it soak for 10 minutes. And I was right, it did burn like the fires of hell. Sarah Margaret offered to finish my nails. But I said absolutely not. I was done with fake nails. So instead of going to school with perfectly manicured nails, I went to school with one hand perfectly manicured, and one hand with stubby short nails. Sarah Margaret denies it, but I think she did it on purpose.