I was looking through a powerful magnifying glass the other day when I accidentally caught sight of one of my fingernails. I wished I hadn’t. Up close, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Without getting into too much detail, it was a bit yellow and gunky and generally unkempt.

At nigh on 53 years old, I resolved to go for a manicure. Under cover of darkness, I approached a reputable nail parlour. It dawned on me I really didn’t know these ropes. Should you clean your nails first? Are they long enough to warrant a manicuring?

Anyway, fellas, this is what happens: the beautician files and snips at your nails and then puts them to soak. Then some milky stuff is brushed on, before she reaches for a kind of thin, straight, upside-down spoon thing. Would you believe she uses this apparatus to push your cuticles in! Then she snips away around the pushed-in area, yielding an astounding quantity (half a century’s worth in my case) of dead skin. Then a sharp little thingy is used to clean beneath your nails.

Finally, I was handed some orangey gunk with abrasive bits in it, which I was instructed to rub in and wash off. It was exactly like Swarfega, which my dad would give me to clean grease off my hands when I’d been oiling couplers in his scaffolding yard. Except this smelled nicer.

Relieved it was over, I put my coat on. “Sit back down, I haven’t finished,” she commanded. I took my coat off and returned sheepishly to her workstation to have my hands wrapped in warm flannels. She then gave my pristine digits a bit of a massage, applied some cream, and I was free to go.

And that was that. I’ll have to check out her work properly with my magnifying glass, of course, but for the moment I’m feeling good; like a new man, actually.

• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster and writer