Ode to My Departed Fake Fingernails

Colours of wine and roses crimsonness!
Rock solid claws of my two extended hands;
Gracious drops of tender hue and gentleness
With rounded curves that molded finger spans;
Each month had its theme of festival chrome,
Began with grinding intense to the core;
To smooth the surface, each nail was buffed
With a double grind; and then grind some more,
And still more, white powder if I pleased,
Until I thought fill would never cease,
For all the layers filled the nails so puffed.

Who hath seen my nails so lovely, tres belle?
Often one who would notice would see
Me sitting lifeless waiting for drying gel,
My face weary from the long days without glee;
And waiting on fan while half asleep,
To air the polish oh just so
Protect burgundy and blushing pink with clear coat;
What I succumbed monthly to such process I do know
Elegance my manicured hands made me want to gloat;
With dripping beauty out of the salon I would float,
With handbag, car keys, and cell phone in tote.

Where are my loveliest fake nails these days? Alas, where oh where?
They perished in a competitor salon one day
With barren nail beds exposed not on a dare
And short stubby brittleness brushed with clear gelee;
Then the wailing began, for weeks pain I did mourn
How fresh and natural could be so harsh, I wailed
No more claws of steel to open packages, jars
Would I still allure those from Mars who hailed?
A newer, simpler me was born
After payment and farewell I sailed
Six fortnights since, my lovelies but distant memoirs.