Her glistening nails, long and thick, newly crafted— the French acrylic style, transparent finish over finger flesh, opaque on talon ends, where were the color ordinary would have trimmed in white or pink. Nothing I’d not want for mine, save cost and upkeep, (growth requiring fill, aging causing cracks) and yes, one other thing— her French nail ends were green. Still I complimented her sincerely then couldn’t figure why, except for shine and shape and for a rating of herself a person worth adorning. Thank you, she replied, I wanted to look different. Then an answer rose within in vindication of my praise, for I could not imagine one so bored with looking right she employs devices to be different.