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Show . . r THE MANICURIST By BID1J DI DLrCT Th manicurist holds my hand and snip my fl riff emails. She talks ot hats and dre and of stores and bargain awl. She tells me Billy's lost his Job, or Charier dotna- fin, whll with my nerves she play tng hob. And yet her am lie's dlvtn. Th manicurist's mani-curist's locks ar blond; her eye ar baby blu. Atl day ah "a kidded kid-ded ami ahe'e conned by auch as m and you. We aqueea her hand by accident and llkewle call her dear. Bh doesn't jolly worth a cent; ah doeen 't fa1 or hear. She'll Jab you In th cuticle. Tou'r mad becaua ft hurt; then of a lovely waits ahe'U tell, ah had with Bill or Bert, "he'll aak you If you Ilk to dance, and whoa you aay yon do, ahe'U Indl-eat Indl-eat with smlhnc ajane that eh approves ot you. Th manicurist la a bird that I can't classify. Hhe'a pretty, witty and absurd. She's pleaainf to th eye. And with her trtrflnf line f chaff, aa at your nails ahe'U snip, ahe'U drlT off car and malt you Inujrh and, ristnr, drop a tip. |