I found myself wandering through a softly lit salon in Oxford, having scheduled a manicure. I slipped onto a plush chair, the floral wallpaper swirling faintly in the corners of my vision, and waited for my turn. Nearby sat two young English women, whispering urgently in clipped, rapid tones. Slowly, as if their hushed words floated on a strange breeze, it became clear they were talking about me. Snatches of their sentences, curling and choppy, revealed they were puzzling over why someone like mea woman of my ageshould bother with a manicure at all. They seemed rather put out that I was delaying their appointment.
Every month, without fail, I venture into the world for a manicure, though it was the first time Id heard such talk. Did they really believe that once a woman receives her pension, she ceases to be a woman at all?
Now, aged 66, I dont believe I must play the part of the old biddy, cutting corners, counting out pounds for potatoes, or wrapping myself in threadbare woollens. When pension-age approached, I already knew I wouldnt become a typical English granny, stooped over bric-a-brac or endlessly polishing tea sets in a draughty sitting room. Why should I? It makes no sense.
When my husband, David, and I left work behind, life shiftedand the world tilted only for the better. We found time melting all around us, and we spent it as we wished. We took up tennis in the misty mornings, joined a walking club, and our weekly costs for utilities and groceries stayed just the same. We managed gifts for children and grandchildren as we always had, just with a bit more creativity. As for all those beauty rituals, I dont see why I should abandon them, and David quite agrees. Weve both enrolled for massages, and next week well try every treatment on offer in the high street spa, from facials to aromatherapy.
Turning to those two girls, whose chatter had grown prickly as lavender hedges, I simply told them, Id rather spend a bit less on biscuits and jam, but youll never find me giving up my manicure. Their astonishment echoed around the salon like the faint chiming of Big Ben in a particularly whimsical dream.
