Time Sure Flies When We're Having Fun!

TWO PERSPECTIVES ON TIME PIECES

Jean says:
Tick tock, kiddies. The older I get, the more conscious I am of the passage of time. I'm also definitely old school when it comes to watches. I love a watch face with hands that move around the dial, not those new-fangled digital numbers with LED readouts. Vintage wind-up and automatic self-winding watches are my favorites. Forget quartz. Forget batteries. (OK, I confess. I do own and wear battery-operated watches but they are like the junk food of the watch world. It's like comparing US and People Magazine to the Atlantic Monthly.)

I started collecting watches about 35 years ago. Like collecting bakelite, collecting watches is addictive. They should come with warning labels. Once you're hooked, baby, you are hooked. Luckily, a couple of decades ago, I reached a mental and spiritual saturation point. I had enough. I didn't need more. Now, I just enjoy them.

My first job in New York City in 1975 involved quarterly trips to Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands, so I cruised the duty-free shops in St. Thomas during the course of several trips, looking for just the perfect watch. I'd know it when I saw it, I thought. And I did. I found a rectangular gold man's Cartier with Roman numerals on a white face and a blue sapphire on the stem. Women's watches looked too tiny and girly. I liked this one for its size and heft and the fact that although it was new, it looked old. Very art deco. I wore it steadily for years, wearing out several bands in the process.

I recall one fateful morning in 1977, when it slipped out of my hands and fell into a full bathtub. I watched in horror as it hit the bottom and the crystal and face popped completely off, revealing all of its innards (little wheels and cogs). I retrieved it and dabbed it with a towel and then turned my hair dryer on it, in a feeble attempt to remove the moisture. I called Cartier on Fifth Avenue as soon as it opened and was told to bring it to the store's repair department immediately. They were fabulous. The experience was the watch repair equivalent of a team of doctors and nurses whisking a bleeding patient from the entry of the emergency room directly into neurosurgery. When I picked it up two days later, the watch had been cleaned and oiled and ran beautifully. I acquired the blue lapis band on my first trip to Santa Fe in 1983 on my way to the Balloon Festival in Albuquerque.

P.S. In 1975, I bought my boyfriend at the time a round Cartier wristwatch that was a rare design that I'd never seen before or since. While I wouldn't want the boyfriend back, I sure would like that watch. I heard years later that he'd had it stolen at Jones Beach along with his car keys and wallet. Karma's a bitch.

Wristwatches were invented by Patek Philippe at the end of the 19th century and were considered at the time to be a woman's accessory. Men started wearing wristwatches after Louis Cartier created a special one for his Brazilian friend, aviator Alberto Santos-Dumont, pictured here.


In 1904, the Brazilian aviator asked his friend Louis Cartier to come up with an alternative to a pocket watch that would allow him to keep both hands on the controls while timing his performances during flight. Cartier and his master watchmaker, Edmond Jaeger, soon came up with the first prototype for a man's wristwatch called the Santos. The Santos first went on sale in 1911, the date of Cartier's first production of wristwatches. (Photo courtesy of commons.wikimedia)

During the First World War, because soldiers needed access to their watches while their hands were full, they were issued wristwatches, called 'trench watches". Because they were made with pocketwatch movements, they were large and bulky and had the crown at the 12 o'clock position. After the war, pocket watches went out of fashion and by 1930 the ratio of wrist-to-pocket watches was 50 to 1. The first successful self-winding system was invented by John Harwood in 1923.

Since I bought my Cartier, I have acquired about a dozen vintage time pieces, all of them men's watches. It wasn't until I pulled all of them out for this posting that I realized that, although they are evenly split between round and rectangular/square faces, the majority (9) are yellow or rose gold, two are stainless steel and one is white gold. All but one have white faces. Most were acquired in the 1980s and 1990s at flea markets and antique shops and from family.

I inherited my dad's high school graduation watch by The Illinois Watch Company with a white gold engraved case and curved crystal with "John June 1932" engraved on the back. I keep it in a black velvet Sulka drawstring bag in the bottom of a round leather box on my dresser.



I also have my father's narrow yellow gold rectangular Elgin wristwatch. It was a gift from my mother. I vividly remember him wearing it in the early 1960s, when he was behind the wheel of our Ford Fairlane 500. It seems so small, especially since my dad was such a big guy. (The wristwatch equivalent of a hippo in high heels?) I was heartbroken when its original gold flexible band broke. As you can see, I've replaced it with a black faux alligator band. I love the name "Elgin" - it was the name of my favorite Blues Brother. The Elgin National Watch Company was founded in August 1864 in Elgin, Illinois, 30 miles northwest of Chicago. The company sold watches under the name Elgin and Lord Elgin until it closed its factory in 1964, after having produced half of the total number of pocket watches manufactured in U.S. The rights to the name were sold to a company that manufactures in China, so watches made after 1964 bear no relationship to real Elgins.

I used to wear my dad's round gold Waltham pocket watch on a big gold chain around my neck. The Waltham Watch Company, named after its MA hometown, produced about 40 million high quality watches, clocks, speedometers, compasses, time fuses and other precision instruments between 1850 and 1957.


This yellow gold Omega automatic watch called the Seamaster is, as the name suggests, waterproof. It is a classic design and is the iconic sports watch.






This round watch, which says "Jules Jurgensen Est. 1740" and "17 Jewels" under its imperial crown comes from good stock. Jules Jurgensen, established in the early 1770s, is one of the very oldest continuous watch companies in existence today with heritage that extends to Denmark, France and finally Switzerland, the capital of the watch making world in the 18th and 19th centuries.

This square gold Hamilton has always intrigued me. I do not know its provenance but the engraving on the back reads: "Bob with love Rosemary 11-7-56". I always wondered what happened (trouble in paradise?) that it ended up for sale at a flea market. Hamilton Watch Company, established in 1892 in Lancaster, PA, became popular for its series of railroad pocket watches (the Broadway Limited) known for their accuracy. Hamilton introduced its first wristwatch in 1917, designed to appeal to men entering World War I. In 1928, Hamilton purchased the Illinois Watch Company (maker of my dad's high school graduation watch). During World War II, production of consumer watches was stopped because all watches manufactured were shipped to troops. More than one million watches were sent overseas.

Here's what I wrote on Saturday night: "This 14 K gold Hamilton with a rectangular face and rectangular second-hand face is in pristine condition. The raised, square edged crystal hasn't got a nick or scratch ... probably because I wear it so rarely." Boy, did I jinx it. On Sunday afternoon, after I'd taken the picture in my living room in the natural light, Valerie and I went to another room to download photos to my computer. We returned to the living room to find the watch on the floor with just the crystal and outer case attached to the band. I think I launched an f-bomb. (Valerie says: Several, actually. In succession. Almost like chanting.) After fishing around under the radiator, I found the rest of the watch and snapped it back into place. Apparently, Bueller (the large ferret) had pulled down the scarf and the watch with it. Sheesh. It is pictured on a Missoni scarf.

I love the angular Arabic numerals on the busy dial of this round, gold Bulova that also says: "23 Jewels Waterproof Automatic Anti-Shock Anti-Magnetic". What else could a girl want? Jewels and accuracy! Magnetism must have been a problem or at least a perceived problem for early wristwatch wearers because "Anti-Magnetic" is engraved on the backs of many of my vintage time pieces. It is pictured on a grey and black felt scarf designed by Eiji Miyamoto for the MOMA Design Store.

This round Movado has gold symbols rather than numbers and above the round second hand face says "Anti-Dust" - which I thought sort of ought to go without saying. Movado is a Swiss luxury watch company whose name is Esperanto for "always in motion". It was founded in 1881 in La Chaux-de-Fonds, Switzerland by Achilles Ditesheim. OK, my little Munchkins, who knows what Esperanto is? Please comment and show us how smart you all are.

This round Baume et Mercier is as thin and sleek as a greyhound. It is "Swiss Made, Stainless Steel, Incabloc, Waterproof and Antimagnetic". Rather than numerals, it has steel slits marking the hours. It is pictured on a black and white cotton Japanese textile designed by Sayuri Shimoda from the MOMA Design Store.


This square watch with metallic blue hands is a "Croton Nivada Grenchen Gladiator EL" The back of the watch says "Incabloc Aquamatic Waterproof Self Winding Shock Resistent Stainless Steel". Nivada was a watch company founded in 1877 in Grenchen, Switzerland. Croton Watch Company was its U.S. distributor. And isn't "Gladiator" a simply scrumptious name for a watch? The blue band matches the hands on the dial. It is pictured on a black and grey Eiji Miyamoto felt scarf from the MOMA Design Store.

The Benrus Watch Company Inc., was founded in New York City in 1921 by three Romanian emigre brothers Benjamin, Ralph, and Oscar Lazrus. The name "BENRUS" is the combination of Benjamin Lazrus' forename and surname. Who knew? The brothers capitalized on the unexpected trend for wristwatches and the sagging demand for pocket watches in the early 1920s by producing moderately priced wristwatches. Benrus manufactured the majority of its watches at La Chaux-de-Fonds, Switzerland and went on to become the third largest American watch company. This black faced yellow gold Benrus has a very unusual 3-level beveled crystal that was obviously too exotic for this amateur photographer to capture. Sorry, kiddies.

I have had this black steel watch for 24 years. It was issued to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the Statue of Liberty on October 28, 1986. The city's fireworks display that evening was spectacular. It is pictured on a rubber tiger-print squeaking dog bone.

You'd think that with all this fire power, I'd be on time more often. You'd think...

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Valerie says:


Watch Story

When I was 14, my mother gave me a lovely delicate watch (shaped something like the one you see here, but a bit more minimalist). I don’t remember what brand it was. The face was little bigger than my thumb nail, and the band was made of two slim black cords of silk or rayon, with a dainty silver catch and safety chain. The numbers on the watch were so tiny I couldn’t possibly read them now, but then I read them effortlessly. I loved the way it disappeared on my wrist, so as not to distract attention from my face or figure or clothes.

When I was 16 and in my senior year of high school, I snagged my first boyfriend, Walter, who was 20. Something of a cross between a David Cassidy and a young Malcolm McDowell, Walter had his faults (and in the fullness of time I found out just how many), but the way he kissed made you forget them. Or not forget them, but not care about them either.

If they’d awarded blue ribbons at the county fair for kissing, I think Walter would have won every year until he retired undefeated. Mothers, if you don’t want your good girls to go bad, get them a boyfriend who doesn’t know how to kiss.


Like so many high school seniors then, when I had the choice between taking calculus and ceramics, I chose ceramics. One of my first projects was to make a hanging planter for Walter. It was going to be a huge thing, with ropes, and my teacher told me I would need a large quantity of sand in a bag around which to shape the planter. The ceramics teacher kept a supply of sand for just this purpose, but didn’t have enough for a project of the size I had in mind, so one day in November I went down to Coney Island – a short subway ride away – to get some.

I was on the beach scooping up sand for my project when I noticed a man under the boardwalk. He was naked and alone. He beckoned me with one hand, and perhaps I don’t have to tell you what he was doing with the other. This was the 1970s, and New York City had a well deserved reputation for crime. I didn’t want to be prevented from getting my sand, but I also didn’t want to find myself suddenly and unwillingly under the boardwalk with the gesticulating man. So I went up the nearby staircase where two young men were leaning against the railing, and explained my predicament to them. Would they mind keeping an eye on me, I asked, till I finished scooping up the sand I needed? They agreed, and in a few minutes, mission accomplished, I came back up to the boardwalk to thank them and go home.

One of the men asked if we could go out on a date. I had Walter. I wasn’t interested in anyone else, and told him so, nicely. But he persisted – after all, you never know when you’re going to break up, he reasoned – and asked if he could just call me from time to time in case I changed my mind. At 16, I hadn’t learned the art of saying no tactfully, and besides, wouldn’t it be nice to have a periodic caller waiting for a spot on my dance card? So I gave him my number. I seem to think his name was Stewart, and that’s what I’ll call him here.

Stewart was tall and slim, with dark curly hair and a moustache - not a bad looking guy. But when he told me he was a teacher in the New York City school system, my antennae went up. When I asked his age, and he told me he was 24, I had to marshall all my will not to giggle. What 24 year old wants to date a 16 year old - even a really cool 16 year old, I wondered. (I now realize that even 90 year old men would ideally like to date a 16 year old, but back then I thought – and still think – that a guy that age who’s fishing in the wading pool isn’t a guy a young girl should want to get hooked by.) (On a separate note, had he been Peter O'Toole [above], none of the above would have applied. At all.)

Stewart probably called me a week later. Geez. Did he have that little faith in my ability (or my desire) to hold on to Walter? And so it went. Every few weeks or so Stewart would call, and I would tell him I was still with Walter.






Until one day I wasn’t. (Walter probably found someone closer to Stewart’s age).








And so it was that several months after our first bizarre meeting, Stewart and I arranged to go out. It’s hard for me to be certain one hundred years later, but Stewart and I could only have had a maximum of three dates, because Stewart couldn’t kiss. Walter had offered me kisses akin to filet mignon with butter sauce, and poor Stewart countered with a McDonald’s hamburger with smears of intermingled ketchup and mustard, topped with a slice of pickle.

To be exact, Stewart inserted his tongue into my mouth the way one might insert a plug into a wall. It was just in there, hard and pointy, and it wasn’t going to move and it wasn’t going to come out.

Not being a wall myself, I was hard put to know what to do with it, or what he expected me to do with it. Electrocute it? Nibble on it? Thrust likewise with my own, and engage in lingual fencing? I was flummoxed, but only for a moment. A girl looking for her second boyfriend wants someone who will outdo the first in every way. I refused to teach the teacher. Stewart had to go.

I was raised to be polite, and would not have dreamed of criticizing Stewart’s kissing. Instead, I probably told him that I was still smarting over Walter, and that I was not ready to start dating again yet. Stewart dropped me off in front of my home and drove away.

Very soon after that, I realized that I didn’t have my watch, the safety chain for which had recently broken and needed to be repaired. I looked in all the usual places for it, to no avail. My heart nearly stopped when I realized it might have fallen off my wrist in the middle of the street when I got out of Stewart’s car, and gotten crushed by passing traffic. I looked where Stewart had dropped me off, but found nothing. Possibly someone had picked it up, I thought. But if I was lucky, it had fallen in Stewart’s car.

I called Stewart the next day. He confirmed that he had found my watch in his car, and said he would bring it around, which I thought was very sweet of him. Time passed, and he didn’t bring it around, so I called to ask again.
Again Stewart said he would bring the watch around, and again he didn’t. I think I probably called one last time, more or less realizing that Stewart had no intention of giving me back my watch.



And so it is with the dance of the sexes (the genders?), where “I’m not ready to go back to dating yet” is code for “oh my god, you're 24 and don’t know how to kiss”, and “yes, I found your watch, and I’ll drop it off” really means “it’ll be a cold day in hell before I waste any more gas money on you”.



I’ve had lots of watches since then. I had a purple Philippe Starck, two red ones from MOMA, one mounted in a black round plastic bracelet, one mounted in a bouncy red rubber undulating band, and a hilarious red and yellow water-filled domed watch in which floated a tiny die. The Swatch I have now is on its second red plastic band, the first having been chewed to death over the course of many years by my 16 year old cat who savored the texture of any soft plastic. But when Jean said she wanted to blog about her watch collection, the only watch I could think to write about was the tiny nameless piece my mother gave me when I was 14.

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A fond welcome to our first readers from Nicaragua, Colombia and Venezuela!

All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my cucumbers

Jean says: Hallelujah, dear readers! We've reached (and surpassed) our one year mark! We're taking time out of our busy schedules to celebrate the fact that the Idiosyncratic Fashionistas are still here and managing to have a good laugh if not the last laugh. In light of the dour economic forecasts, we decided to exercise fiscal restraint and staged our own mini staycation and spa. Girls still wanna have fun! Having had the morning from hades (trapping and rescuing some feral cats in a hot and dusty Chinatown parking lot), I was thrilled to spend a couple hours in air conditioning, planning and staging our photo shoot. Once I was positioned in my towel and the cold cucumbers hit my eyeballs, I was practically out like a light.

Valerie says: Jean's mask is a truly lovely shade of blue (almost Matisse-like, particularly in combination with the rich red lipstick), while mine is such a pale green as to appear nearly white in the photos. Perhaps because my Queen Helene mint julep masque is designed to treat acne, it dries quickly, while Jean's remains moist and mayonnaise-like much longer. (Jean says: Hoarder alert! When Valerie mentioned using mud packs, I dug around in one of my drawers and retrieved the tube with the blue mask used in the photos. The front label says: "Naturistics Spa Face and Body Mud Mask - Sea Mineral with sea kelp, sea fennel & vitamin E. Never tested on Animals." In even smaller print on the back of the tube, it says: "Del Laboratories, Inc. 1997." It is a true testament to the longevity of their product and packaging that both still work beautifully 13 years after manufacture. What it says about my storage habits is quite another thing all together. The fact that I could immediately locate and retrieve the tube is the positive side of that equation.)

Jean says: Since the first anniversary is "paper" (25th is silver and 50th is golden), we have appropriately attired ourselves for the auspicious occasion in the August 7th edition of the New York Times. Ms. Valerie is modeling two selections from the arts section featuring colorful photos of Mark Morris Dance Company. In light of the fact that unemployment is stalled at 9.5% and the recovery is turned on its head, yours truly is wearing an askew view of the business section.

Valerie says: You can see that Jean has been out and about, robustly tanning in the process, while yours truly remains pale as a hothouse flower.

In addition to the final product, we wanted to share our outtakes of this week's shoot.

Jean says: We tried to line up the shots, artistically arrange the river stones, etc., BEFORE we were covered in quick-drying mud masks. As you can see, things rapidly got out of hand.






Valerie says: I loved Jean's idea of putting the painted wooden cubes on her eyes. On a roll, Jean was inspired to put these on my eyes. I think this is how most people feel after a day's work. (Jean says: Valerie's look is at once both space alien and insect-like. I was laughing so hard when I snapped the shot that I tripped and almost stepped on her.)


Jean says: As you can see, I cannot keep a straight face. I want to know how Valerie managed to appear positively regal in demeanor when encased in clay. (Valerie says: the thought of having to wash off and reapply the mask, cracked by a mere moment's indiscreet laughter, was a wondrous incentive for keeping a straight face.)

Valerie's impression of how Little Orphan Annie would look at the spa.









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P.S. Style Alert:
Jean says: Reading Pamela Paul's article in today's New York Times' Sunday Styles about Stephanie Dolgoff's new book "My Formerly Hot Life: Dispatches from Just the Other Side of Young" was extremely self-affirming. It is heartening to have one's own opinions mirrored in print. Ms. Dolgoff is not the first to notice that "What makes retro look cute is the discrepancy between the person's age and the era it came from." Having recently watched "Woodstock" and laughingly appreciated John Sebastian's tie-dyed outfit and Roger Daltry's fringed jacket, I was also acutely aware of the need to admire those looks from afar, rather than resurrect some treasures from storage. Likewise, it was less than earth-shattering to learn that shoes are Ms. Dolgoff's greatest challenge. ("You do need to be able to walk. I'm done sacrificing to look good. I don't want to hurt anymore.") Hello? Valerie and I say: Welcome to our world, Ms. Dolgoff! Perhaps the added pressure for chic, comfortable footwear from this newly-monikered demographic known as "Formerlies" (as in formerly hot) will provide the tipping power to that of "women of a certain age" so that shoe designers will finally sit up and take notice. As our regular readers know, shoes are one of our recurring themes. There is a largely untapped women's shoe market hungering for glamor ... without pain. Pass along the drumbeat.

Nailed!

Jean says: Given the proliferation of nail salons and the ubiquitous "mani-pedi" phenomenon even among grade-school girls and pre-schoolers (what's THAT about?), this week we are examining the subject in depth! Just as our hair textures and wardrobe color palettes differ, so do our approaches to fingernails. I color my nails with polish. Valerie does not. We are united on one point, however: we have both resisted the trend (it is much too entrenched to be termed a fad at this point) toward salon manicures. We are proud to say that we do our own nails.

Originating in China in 3,000 BC, nail color indicated one's social status -- according to a Ming dynasty manuscript, royal fingernails were painted black and red. The Egyptians also colored their nails, using red to show the highest social class. It is said that Cleopatra's nails were painted a deep red, whereas Queen Nefertiti went with a flashier ruby shade. In ancient Egypt and Rome, military commanders also painted their nails to match their lips before they went off to battle. Here I am, channeling my inner Nefertiti with my fire engine red nail.

Similar to our hair (and horses' hooves), nails are dead cells of a protein called keratin. Nails derive their hardness from sulfur in the amino acids binding the keratin together and their shine and pliability from fat and water molecules between the layers of keratin. Nails grow an average of 1/8 inch per month, so it takes from four to six months to grow an entirely new nail. Also, nails grow faster in respose to stimulation (tapping and buffing). That's why nails on right-handers grow faster than on their left. Ironically, according to www.longnails.com, biting your nails can also increase nail growth since it increases blood circulation. Illnesses and some prescription medications can slow growth. It's no surprise that as we age, nail growth naturally slows down (as do so many other things).

Jean says:I was blessed with long nail beds. My nails start lower down my fingers, giving the illusion of length, and (bonus points), they grow like weeds. Nails are great. They accentuate gestures, elongating the line of the hand and arm. I am a ham. I often match my nail color to my Bakelite and plastic jewelry to show it off to its best advantage. On the left, I am wearing a red hinged Bakelite cuff and two Bakelite rings on either side of a round plastic ring. On the right, I'm wearing a Tokyo Boy watch with red rubber band, two red Bakelite rings and a red plastic skull (Meredith Katz, "Made Her Think"). [You can click on our photos to enlarge.]

Contrary to the advice in all the lifestyle magazines, I use my nails as tools all the time - to remove staples, pry open cans and lids, scratch off all manner of schmutz and dig in the dirt. If one breaks, it grows back. Big deal -- with one exception -- when they break below the quick, I see stars. It hurts like heck because of the concentration of nerves and blood circulation. No wonder torturers threaten to push bamboo sticks under them. I would not make a good spy. I'd confess anything and everything if someone were pulling out my nails!

I wear relatively cheap nail polish: Brucci Nail Hardener (available at CVS and Duane Reade and numerous other venues.) In my experience, the drugstore variety polishes wear longer, chip less and dry faster than the expensive department store and designer brands. Bright red is my all-time favorite color. In this photo, I am wearing Brucci's Romantic Red. It has little to no blue undertones. Newly applied, it is the same color as a bright red Ferrari. (Trust me, I've done the side-by-side comparison too many times to count.) For anyone who likes a bluer tone, try Brucci's Berrylicious. It is gorgeous. Over time, after application, nail color changes slightly. I think this is as a result of exposure to the sun and products of modern living: body oils, suncreens, antibacterial towelettes, bath and dish soaps, shampoos and conditioners. The toy I am holding is Nathan from Strange Company. (Valerie says: Isn't Nathan wonderful? A girl is never too old for a good toy!)


Nail polish, like lipstick, should flatter the wearer's skin tone and mood. Bright reds are cheery. As a rule, the darker the color, the more sophisticated. Colors like black, purple, navy blue, charcoal and oxblood are more Goth, telegraphing a darker outlook. In this photo, I'm wearing Brucci's Black Cherry. I eschew metallics and pale shades. While I can appreciate lime greens, fushias and bright corals on other people, they are not my cup of tea. As far as diamonds and metal studs embedded in long, fake nails, don't even go there, girlfriend! I leave that whole scene to teen queens and rappers.

Left to right, I am wearing a vintage carved black Bakelite cube, black skull (Meredith' Katz, "Made Her Think"), gold and amethyst college ring and gold 9/11 ring (by Kirsten Hawthorne), black Bakelite thumb ring, gold family crest signet, hammered rose gold orb with apricot colored diamond chip (Kirsten Hawthorne), gold high school signet (with monogram long worn away), gold stackable ring (Kirsten Hawthorne), black molded plastic ring (Meredith Katz, "Made Her Think").

Unfortuately, as you can see from this macro close-up by Ms. Valerie, I'm not a stickler for edging. I apply polish to my nails in much the same way I paint apartment walls - fast and loose. Besides, polish wears off the skin much quicker than it does nails. And it isn't very noticeable unless one is looking down the barrel of the gun, so to speak. Does the fact that we were pressed for time buy me any sympathy? I slapped a coat of dark polish over my red for this photo shoot before we headed uptown to Tender Buttons. (Valerie interjects: SO much to say about Tender Buttons. We've mentioned them briefly once before. One day we'll have to go into more detail. Ever notice how women collect SMALL objects, and like SMALL boxes? Tender Buttons is perfect for these particular obsessions because it carries nothing but small objects (fabulous buttons) all filed away in small boxes, kind of like library card catalogue drawers for buttons.)

Fascinating nail facts: People have been manicuring their nails for more than 4,000 years. In southern Babylonia, noblemen used solid gold tools to give themselves manicures and pedicures. The use of fingernail polish can be traced back even further.

In fiction and film, long nails have long been associated with evil and the supernatural. Murnau's Nosferatu sported long bat-like teeth, ears and nails which made the bald, skinny creature even more menacing. Luckily, Herzog's remake maintained that image. (Photos courtesy of cleantechnica.com and nighthawknews.wordpress.com)

Fu Manchu has not one but two keratin-related claims to fame! Not only is he famous for his long, thin moustache, but also for his long nails. Lon Chaney portrayed the evil Fu Manchu in the 1927 silent film "Mr. Wu". Rather than hire real Asians, old-time Holywood studios went to great lengths with makeup and wigs.

Boris Karloff donnned eye makeup and crazy nails in the 1932 talkie "The Mask of Fu Manchu". Myrna Loy played his evil daughter and sported similarly long appendages. As an evil scientist, Karloff sought the sword and mask of Ghengis Khan to secure his own power as world conqueror.








Christopher Lee's immortal portrayal of the sinister Chinese warlord appears in 1968's "The Castle of Fu Manchu". (Photos from The Horror of it All (THOIA) website and seul-le-cimena.blogspot.com.)

Valerie adds: Bonus points if you can name a movie that featured red nails as a pivotal point for its heroine.

Here are two visual clues:









Extra bonus points if you can name the nail polish color shown above (sorry - it was a black and white movie, so we can't show you the fabulous color.)



Jean says: Well, dear readers, when Valerie and I decided to explore the topic of nails, little did I know that fingernails and toenails are big-time fetish objects! There are whole websites and chat rooms devoted to the topic. I should probably have guessed, given that shoe fetishes are so well known, that all things foot-related could similarly be the objects of obsession. But who knew fingernails held a similar exalted state? THAT's a topic for someone else's blog.

Valerie sighs: When Jean and I go out, I leave the responsibility for beautiful nails to her, and she handles it like a champ, as you can see. I am a dropout in the race for fabulous nails. The spirit is willing, but it seems the flesh (I mean the nail) is weak.

My mother had wonderful, beautiful nails – long, slim and even, which she could have done anything with, but chose not to, including passing them along to me. Alas. It was my sister who inherited the great nails. I guess that makes sense, since she was the first born and has the rights to primogeniture. On the other hand (so to speak), I’m taller than both of them, yet have the shortest hands – and nails – in the family. What's up with that?

My nails look like after-thoughts, as if they were the crude little half moons or circles shown here - painted by Picasso to imply finger tips.




In addition, some of my nails, instead of being flat as perfect little pancakes, or gently rounded like the middle of the letter C, are shaped more like a letter S, undulating unevenly. Sometimes they develop odd creases across them. As I have a bird's eye view of these flaws, when I put on nail polish I remind myself of Paul McCartney coloring his hair. Do I think I'm fooling anyone?

In any case, I am no hand model. SIGH.







I had long painted nails ONCE – when I was fourteen, and all my little peers were growing and painting theirs. Then one of my ten nails broke. Having nine long nails and one short was unthinkable. Jean's angst-free approach to different sizes is the correct one. But teenagers are angst-ridden. I cut all my nails short, and never succeeded in growing them again, despite numerous attempts. When the natural look took hold in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, I had a perfect excuse to ignore my nails and their shortcomings.

One day, well into adulthood (in the ‘80s?), I saw a photograph in a fashion magazine of a model with very short lacquered fingernails. That one photo allowed me to give myself permission to paint my short nails. I did so for some long period of time, and enjoyed it, but in the end I tired of the practice. I tired of changing colors to suit my clothes, tired of chipping nails in public, where I could not repair them, tired of waiting for polish to dry, and tired of accidentally smearing wet polish against some unintended surface. When finally I tired of spending the required time on the activity, I quit altogether.

In recent years, I also tired of assiduously filing my nails after clipping them. Now, as soon as they get a bit long, I clip them in a haphazard way, and I’m done.



About six years ago, I attempted to paint my nails for a special occasion, but did a bad job, leaving streaks and smears and bumps. I removed all the polish, but did not have time to try again, so I amused myself by putting a single drop of polish on each nail. The rest was history. Now, although I seldom paint my nails, if I do, it’s only with a single drop (see photo). It’s applied quickly and dries quickly, it’s decorative, and there’s a touch of humor to it. Most people never even notice the dots (one friend thought I’d injured myself when she saw one of my nails), but everyone who sees them gives them the nod of approval. The best thing about the dots, though, is that they completely take over, and no one seems to notice that I did not inherit my mother’s gorgeous nails.

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Did you get the movie questions? The movie is The Women (1939); the color was Jungle Red. Nars is now making Jungle Red nail polish and matching lipstick. Inspired choice of name!

We had our first readers from Bahrain, Brazil and Lithuania in the past two weeks. We're getting to be so international!