Talk to the Hand

Nobody did shocking better than Elsa Schiaparelli. The Samurai Shopper particularly loved her black Surrealist gloves with red snakeskin fingernails and has looked in vain for such a pair. Fingernails may be some women's fetish, but the Samurai has never had nails worth a fashion statement; hence, Schiaparelli gloves seem the perfect cover-up. I'm also intrigued by nails like Willem Dafoe's in "Shadow of the Vampire." Dafoe plays the vampire Nosferatu, sporting the same kind of dragon-lady nails that Howard Hughes adopted in his final demented days. Other times, the Samurai dreams of bionic womanhood, like Marvel Comics' Lady Deathstrike, with her killer metal claws.

Skip to next paragraph Illustration by Marc Alary

In lieu of invincible nails, I indulge in delectable hand creams. And I can wholeheartedly recommend them at all prices, from Darphin's Crème Aromatique to Burt's Bees' supermarket salves. Hand creams, in fact, are a little like sex: when they're good, they're very good, and when they're bad, they're not so terrible. The higher-priced spreads, like Clé de Peau's 0-plus cream or Cornelia's Hand Recovery Cream, may be luxuries, but they will revitalize you with instantaneous results and very little effort. Just as Schiaparelli knew that clothes are lifeless without bodies to support them, hand creams are worthless without daily use, come hell or high water.

Occasionally, I opt for manicures, too, pathetic attempts to kick-start nail growth, since genetics and dishwater conspire against me. Though challenged in the tips department, I know a good manicure when I have one; it's equal parts competence and chemistry, with some ambience tossed in. (What's intolerable is the squalid scent of hair chemicals; what's maddening is Coldplay perpetually hogging the soundtrack. What's wrong with Nine Inch Nails, anyway?)

A good manicurist accommodates a client: at the Acqua Beauty Bar on East 14th Street, I asked my manicurist not to cut my cuticles but to push them gently back with a wooden stick, which lessens infection and keeps cuticles from turning into overgrown coats of armor. It's a golden rule in nail care. Acqua Bar lady glared as if I were wearing a lamb-chop hat on my head; she then rendered the most rushed and incompetent manicure ever. I retaliated by marching into C.O. Bigelow pharmacy and buying delicious hand creams from Provence, like Le Couvent des Minimes, generously dosed with shea butter, honey and marshmallow extract. I also sprung for Lippmann Collection's Rich Girl hand cream with SPF 25, the better to arm myself against the sun and the ravages of time. Nothing says "one foot in the grave" like haglike hands.

I fared better at Paul Labrecque Salon & Spa on the Upper East Side. Aurora, my manicurist, was congenial and expert, able to talk to the hand as well as to the face. She took great pains to turn my reptilian, broomstick-wielding mitts into respectable, functioning objects. I wisely ignored the Schiaparelli-like Shocking Pink nail polish and opted for Pearly White, which matched my teeth. Paul Labrecque carried the very splendid Crema Per Le Mani by Santa Maria Novella, which went on toothpaste-white and waxy but was soon sucked up, vampirelike, by my thirsty hands.

Everywhere I went, I asked if those two-inch acrylic nails worn by all of the cashiers at Rite Aid are for me. Why should Fu Manchu have all the fun? Everywhere, manicurists said, "Nuh-uh," citing potential long-term damage to my compromised hands. I could, however, vanquish cracks with Carolyn New York's Cuticle Oil in lavender or almond (go to www.carolynny.com). Carolyn also does snazzy polish that dries in a New York minute and provides local color with names like Tribeca Spirit, the Bronx, etc. It stayed put on my nails all week.

At Jin Soon Natural Hand & Foot Spa in the West Village, I realized that being exfoliated and massaged is nearly as good as having nails. But not all products rock. StriVectin-SD, the alleged breakthrough in skin care, smelled like "Unspun Socks From a Chicken's Laundry"; that's a Spike Milligan book as hard to find as Schiaparelli's harlequin-patterned coat. Q-Vectin, from Dermapeutics, is sniffier and less pricey, as is its CoQ10 and Copper Hand and Body Cream, which smells delightfully like the Saint Clair 2004 Marlborough Riesling we had at dinner (go to www.windsordirect.net).

The corner manicure shop is an endemic part of New York life, and someday, when I find one that performs miracles on my extremities, I may become a regular. Meanwhile, I have my hands full searching for fingernailed gloves.

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