1. I look at my hands and see grown-out nails with chipped fingernail polish. While this would seem to be something to drive the perfectionist in me absolutely mad, the sight is making me giddy.
2. Earlier this year, I met a new friend for tea (not coffee—I don’t drink coffee, though I love how it smells). She’s a teacher and at least 10 years younger than me, with that look and style that says, “I wasn’t even trying to be cool, but here I am anyway.” And she had chipped nail polish on her fingers. The teenager in me (shoot, the 47 year old in me) thought this looked effortlessly cool.
3. Before 4 months or so ago, I had never painted my nails. As in my nails never had paint put on them by me or by anyone else for that matter.
4. This is for a few reasons. I thought my hands looks manly and didn’t want to bring attention to them. I don’t remember if someone told me that or if it was my own observation, but that was indelibly painted on my psyche. Plus, it just seemed frivolous. I had the narrative that girls and women who wore nail polish were too girly and feminine and wasteful with their money. Yet, I dated a guy in college who wore it and was somehow a feminist in my mind. For him it was okay, but not for me. I don’t remember if someone told me that or if that was what I really believed. The patriarchy, man, it is so insidious.
5. And so then, 4 months or so ago, a voice inside me—teenager me—started to rebel. She really wanted to be heard. “Just paint your fucking nails” she said to me in a way that felt far more assuring and loving that it did aggressive or condescending.
6. So when I saw an ad for Olive & June on my Instagram feed, I thought it was a sign. God herself sent me a message through social media and didn’t even bother sliding into my DMs; she boldly put it right there were I could see it as if to say, “This one. Can I make it any more clear?”
7. The day my nail kit arrived, both my teenager self AND my 5-year-old self opened the package with me at the dining room table. Teenager me was queueing up The Sundays and The Sugarcubes on CD, while 5-year-old me did a little chair dance and said this was more exciting than putting puffy scratch ‘n’ sniff stickers in her Hello Kitty sticker book. Both of them were ready. And so was I.
8. As Bjork sang about birthdays and motor crashes, I started to paint. Teenage me nodded in approval when 5-year-old me took a turn and let me know that it was okay she painted outside the lines. That she was just learning and when you are learning, you don’t always get it right the first few times. We all smiled and giggled.
9. The hardest part was letting the paint dry. Teenage me had places to be and 5-year-old me was extra wiggly and ready for either a snack, or a nap, or both. Probably both. So, 47-year-old me had to be fully present and patient reminding them both that there was a process to all of this. Teenage me rolled her eyes, but I could tell she understood. I looked over and saw 5-year-old me on the floor playing with the cats.
10. Just like pulling a sheet of cookies out of the oven and waiting for them cool, the anticipation was exciting and excruciating. When my nails were finally dry, all three of us slid a finger over one to feel the coolness, the smoothness. We felt satisfied, as if chocolate chips just melted on our tongues.
11. And a week later, the paint chipped. Teenager me smiled and looked around to make sure no one saw her do such a thing, while 5-year-old me roller skated in the driveway. I was now fully initiated into the fingernail-painting club—the one I was completely wrong about. The one that soothes, satisfies, and sees me…times three.
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Welcome to the club. I don't let my nails get long (impractical) or file them (too fussy), but I paint them all the time--most often golden muted yellow. I painted them a new colour yesterday--a camel brown. Two nails are chipped already today (housework). I'll touch up the chips and keep doing so until it starts to look weird and uneven and I have to strip it all off and start over again. But I will, do it all over again. Small joy. Little flashes of colour when I type and make things with my hands. Something to elevate my pajama looks. Or to complement the flowers. That looks nice on Zoom when I gesticulate.
This is great. Thank you for sharing.