She shamed me, is what she did.

She’s done that at least three times now. I’m not sure why she does it, but I suspect she just likes to see me look uncomfortable.

The first time she did it, I laughed and, like the good sport that I am, went ahead with the whole thing. The second time she did it, she made me feel sort of guilty, so I went along with it again. The third time she did it, she shamed me into it.

The first two times our now-20-year-old daughter Emma did it we were in Kansas City. When you are in Kansas City and someone forces you to get your fingernails and toenails done in a salon, the odds of someone you know walking in and seeing you are low. But this time, Emma arranged for me to get my nails done in Carthage, where the odds someone I know would walk in and see me went up — to use a complicated math term — a whole bunch.

What Emma does is give me the gift of a fingernail and toenail treatment for Father’s Day — the idea being that I would be unable to turn down a Father’s Day gift. It’s a tricky gift with which to deal.

See, for years Emma has told me that I should get my nails done with her, and for years I’ve told Emma that I would do that when it got really, really cold in hell.

Then, two years ago, Emma gave me the Father’s Day gift of nails. Emma, somewhere, somehow, picked up an evil streak from someone. I don’t want to point fingers at anyone, but the person’s initials are “MY WIFE.”

My wife thinks it’s funny that Emma gives me the gift of nails for Father’s Day.

“Oh, quit complaining,” my wife would say to me when I would complain about having to get my nails done. “You make her go to baseball games.”

“And Jimmy Buffett concerts,” Emma would add.

“But you love going to baseball games and Jimmy Buffett concerts,” I would say.

“No, I don’t,” Emma would say.

I guess I should have known that, I would not say but instead think to myself.

“Relax,” myself would say. “How could you have known?”

Sometimes, myself just gets me.

This time, the way Emma guilted me into getting my nails done with her was asking me a simple question on Sunday afternoon.

“Dad,” Emma said, “would you like to share some quality time with your daughter on Monday?”

I’m sort of a moron, but even a moron knows that the answer to a question like that has to be: “Sure.” Especially if the moron’s wife is standing right next to him at the time.

So, when I said, “Sure.” Emma said, “Good because we’re going to get our nails done Monday afternoon.”

Sort of walked right into that one. I was shamed into it, is what I was.

According to Emma, the other reason she likes for me to get my nails done because my nails “are literally terrible.”

Whenever Emma says that, I respond, “Of course they are. I’m a guy.”

This is a sociological fact that I just made up, but 96.9 percent of all guys don’t care about their nails. I have never once heard one guy say to another guy: “Ooooh, I love your nails.” Unless the guy happens to be in a hardware store.

Emma and the nice lady who did my nails both told me that more and more guys are getting their nails done. I told them that I wasn’t one of those guys. Then they both pointed out to me that I was currently getting my nails done.

They had a point. But it wasn’t my fault. I was shamed into it.