Shall you ever forget your first manicure? The shan'ts are
unanimously in the majority. It seems an easy thing to walk into
a manicure parlor or a barber shop and shove your hands across a
little table to a strange young woman and tell her to go ahead and
shine 'em up a bit--the way you hear old veteran manicurees saying
it. It seems easy, I say, and looks easy; but it isn't as easy as
it seems. Until you get hardened, it requires courage of a very
high order. You, the abashed novice, see other men sitting in the
front window of the manicure shop just as debonair and cozy as
though they'd been born and raised there, swapping the ready
repartee of the day with dashing creatures of a frequently blonde
aspect, and you imagine they have always done so. You little know
that these persons who are now appearing so much at home and who
can snap out those bright, witty things like "I gotcher Steve,"
and "Well, see who's here?" without a moment's hesitation and
without having to stop and think for the right word or the right
phrase but have it right there on the tip of the tongue--you little
reck that they too passed through the same initiation which you
now contemplate. Yet such is the case.

You have dress rehearsals--private ones--in your room. In the
seclusion of your bed chamber you picture yourself opening the door
of the marble manicure hall and stepping in with a brisk yet
graceful tread--like James K. Hackett making an entrance in the
first act--and glancing about you casually--like John Drew counting
up the house--and saying "Hello girlies, how're all the little
Heart's Delights this afternoon?" just like that, and picking out
the most sumptuous and attractive of the flattered young ladies in
waiting; and sinking easily into the chair opposite her--see photos