I don't have pretty hands. I have working hands. I dig into the soil to weed -- with my fingers, not necessarily with a garden spade. I get blisters when I trim the lawn (no power trimmer for me!) and have scratches and scrapes because I forget to wear gloves, even when working around prickly roses. My fingernails are usually short, out of practicality. My rule of thumbnail is, pun intended, if there are 3 or more short nails, they all get shortened!
I use to have acrylic nails - long, fancy, and polished. I spent time and money to keep them looking nice, primarily for my profession - one that was constantly pointing out details in paperwork to all classes of folk. When I left that profession, however, there was no practical reason to maintain the fancy tips. I can't say I've missed them.
Even though they're rough, my hands know how to touch, caress, hold, soothe, and love. My hands may be working hands and they may not be pretty, but they're loving hands.
Now you'll have to show me your hands, Friend. A really nicely written piece that points directly into your life, and that takes readers with it (as does your writing generally). Thank you.
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