Beneath the gloss: should we stop having manicures?

I was on a second date in a dimly lit Italian restaurant in Brooklyn when one of my false nails flew off my left hand and settled into my ravioli. We were one drink in and mid- conversation when I rested the hand in question on my knee, using the other to stealthily bury the evidence. After a short pause, the conversation continued, awkwardly moving on to siblings. Had he noticed? Was the lighting that soft? This was the aesthetic blip I'd been dreading. The unexpected flinging-of-nail moment that had sworn so many people before me off press-ons; the date…