“Hello, I’m La C. and I am a nail-polish-holic.” There, I said it. I suppose I thought confessing my unhealthy addiction of mine would be followed by the huge sigh of relief in addition to the weight of world suddenly lifting from my shoulders. But there was no gratification of the sort. Which can mean either two things: one, I’m not yet a true nail-polish-holic; or two, I am past the point of no return in this sweet tooth of mine. It started when I was about ten or eleven, when I was promised one bottle of nail polish if I completed a wee The k’s worth of good grades, piano-practicing, and partaking in my share of chores. I worked diligently, of course, for that first bottle of pearlized mauve perfection (that soon led on to cherry reds and peach-y golds… I had quite the sophisticated taste in colours for a not-yet-pre-teen girl). And somehow along the way I went from applying lacquer only on special occasions (birthdays and Christmas) to rarely leaving the front door (or garage, depending on the day) sans polish. Exact details are a blur – perhaps I can make the strong fumes of nail varnishes the scapegoat…