It’s Sunday morning, usually the day I head to my local nail salon to enjoy a pedicure. I am, by now, two weeks overdue for my usual appointment, but the spas are closed due to the “Great Lockdown of 2020”. I miss Ann, my lovely esthetician. Despite very different life experiences, we have oddly parallel lives – two children, elderly parents, marriages that ended, and new boyfriends. We have lots to chat about, and the ritual of getting my nails done is as much about checking in with Ann and her life as about pampering my feet.

We are weeks into the lockdown, and it seems there are weeks yet to come before the salons and spas re-open. On social media, many people seem to be quite concerned about their hair – getting it cut and coloured. Not me. My hairstyle can grow for a while before it needs to be tamed. And through a dint of good luck, I had gone to see my hairdresser just days before the lockdown began. Yes, my roots will grow out eventually, but I won the gene lottery (on this point anyway) of having no grey hair as yet. The worst that can happen is my hair will turn from “dirty blonde” to “mousy blonde”. I’ll take that risk: the idea of colouring my own hair is far scarier. Besides, I’m told the “showing your roots” look is currently in fashion – just my luck!

What I am desperately in need of, however, is a pedicure. I have not cut or painted my own toenails in years. It likely started when I was pregnant and couldn’t reach my own feet. Then it became a habit (yes, I am well aware that my indulgence in professional pedicures makes me a princess). In the meantime, seeing, let alone reaching and cutting, my own toenails has become increasingly challenging.

I have put this essential task off for as long as I can, but yesterday during my daily walk it became apparent that the dreaded time had come. Now I have to face the inevitable. I envision a home spa as pictured in the fashion magazines or a rom-com movie – soft music playing, candles burning, a sweet aroma in the air, expensive lotions and bubble bath at my fingertips, while luxuriating in a tub. Doing my own pedicure does not fit with this vision. I know it will be a battle – ugly, bloody and brutal.

With this approach in mind, I hatch a plan worthy of a top secret military operation on how to tackle the problem. What supplies will I need? Toenail clippers and nail scissors – nail files are for sissies, I think (mostly because I’ve never mastered the use of these). I don’t have any nail polish on hand, so walk (painfully) to the nearest drugstore and purchase some base coat and select an unassuming colour to match the natural colour of my nails in case things get ugly – my personal form of camouflage. What about lighting and positioning? I decide on my bathroom, propping my foot up on the closed toilet lid. How best to see? Do I do this without contact lenses or with contact lenses and reading glasses? At least I know that night vision goggles will be of no use.

Finally, there is the question of personnel – who will do the actual cutting? I know The Boyfriend has had a wealth of experience in the “woman department” (don’t ask!) – and not just because he has two older sisters. I also know through hearsay that he has skill in waxing (no, really, don’t ask!), but the question is has he ever cut anyone’s toenails? I ask. He says no. He suggests Son #2 could help. I say no. So it is left to me – blind, unskilled and fearful – to take care of my own body. How unfair!

And so the battle begins. I prop my foot up on the toilet lid. My hamstrings scream at me due to the workout I did with my trainer over Zoom two days earlier – first workout in six weeks! Ouch!! I perch unsteadily on one foot and start to remove the old polish. The nail polish remover was already on hand courtesy of my son, who had painted his nails black last Halloween and decided later he needed to get rid of the polish. The cotton wool was an insert in a Pepcid pill container that I have just emptied – nothing like reducing, reusing and recycling in the time of a pandemic! The polish – bright blue – comes off reasonably easily, but I realize already that this is the easy part of the operation. I also realize that my idea of working without my contact lenses isn’t working. I give myself leave to put in my contact lenses, but only after washing my hands thoroughly to avoid getting nail polish remover into my eyes. Perhaps, I muse absentmindedly, we should be using more nail polish remover to banish COVID.

Time to face the enemy and get this operation properly underway. I once again assume the position and now start the dreaded process of actually cutting my nails. Or, more accurately, attempting to cut my nails. I take the toenail clipper and make the first cut on my big toenail. Dismal results – a completely crooked nail, with one side likely too close to the flesh and the other edge still too long. I abandon the clippers and resort to the scissors. They chew away at the nail, until it is shorter but ragged. I repeat the process on the other toes, alternating between the scissors and clippers as I deem, in my wisdom, which is the right tool in that moment. The end result is mediocre at best. On one hand (foot?), I have not drawn blood and my nails are definitely shorter. But, on the other hand, they look uneven and in places too short. The whole unhappy process took half an hour and I haven’t yet attempted the nail polish. But I am out of patience and courage – the polish will have to wait till later.

At this juncture, I hope the nail salons don’t open for about three weeks so that my nails can grow out enough to allow Ann to fix the mess I have created. But any longer will necessitate another “Battle of the Bathroom” in my home spa. I guess during this strange time we all have our “crosses to bear” – in my pampered life, not baring my feet this summer is mine.