This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...
Episode 2
Nailed It?
My mom would paint my fingernails a different color every Sunday before the next week of school. I remember having red nails the most. It made me feel grown up, because red is a very womanly color, I thought.
My mom sold Avon for many years when I was little, seeing all the makeup that people ordered, flipping through the shiny Avon booklets that had this special smell to them--like perfume and magazine paper--and touching the tiny lipstick samples (so cute!) filled me with wonder and awe. I would help my mom slip booklets and samples into clear plastic baggies, and then I’d go with her around neighborhoods to drop off those goodies. She’d stop at the end of a driveway, and I’d get out and run to the door, slip the baggie on the handle or prop it against the door, and then hurry back to the car. This excited me. Would we get in trouble if we were caught?
My mom had a nice collection of nail polish thanks to Avon, but mostly they were dark, autumn colors to match her coloring.
Nail polish became my first makeup love. My sisters and I had our own collection when we shared a room. Mostly, though, the polish belonged to my oldest sister.
I remember lying on my bed one day when my oldest sister came home from sleeping over at a new friend’s house, and she was telling our sister all about it, specifically what her room looked like. One thing I picked up was that this girl had lined up all of her nail polishes along the front of her dresser. A lightbulb went off in my head. What a brilliant idea! And if my sister thought it was cool, maybe she’d think it was cool if I did it, too.
The three of us had matching dressers. I went to mine, rearranged the items I had up there (like plastic ponies), grabbed all of our nail polishes, and carefully lined them up. How neat. How pretty. How adult.
My sisters noticed. There was sneering. I believe something was said about it, but I can’t remember the words. I do recall that afterward, I sighed with longing and sadness when I saw those nail polishes, so pretty, bright, and sparkly. I kept them there for a while. Days? Weeks? I don’t know for sure, but I did end up taking them down. My sisters didn’t think it was cool that I did it. So, I concluded that meant that I wasn’t cool.
Now, I do my own thing to display them. Years ago, I found a neat spice rack at a thrift store. I hung it up in my bathroom and arranged my nail polishes in it according to color. I like to see my nail polishes instead of having them zipped up in a makeup bag or in a plastic container under my bathroom sink, which is where they had been for ages before this spice rack.
***
I never lost my love for nail polish. As I got older, I’d paint each nail a different color, alternate between two, such as one nail black, the next orange, and repeat. I did this a lot in October for Halloween, my favorite holiday. And I made sure that my thumbs started with opposite colors to make it even. Five nails orange, five nails black.
I also went through a phase of liking fake nails. My best friend and I would buy packs of fake nails from Walmart and glue them on in her bedroom. The first time I wore fake nails, I couldn’t get enough of them. There’s a scene in Dennis the Menace of a woman tapping her nails in a rhythmic manner on a counter. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. I loved it! So, when I had on my first set of fake nails, I tapped them on every surface I could find. I would even pretend to be typing on a keyboard. Every time my nails clicked against a table, counter, or desk, it sounded as though I was typing. I did this a lot.
In middle school, I started to get blank nails at Dollar Tree and shape and paint them myself. There was one pair I was really proud of. It was white with black, glittery tips. I put a lot of effort into them. When I wore them the first time to school, my insecurities came back to me, and I suddenly didn’t want anyone to see them. I’d curl them into my palms. But one day, a girl in 8th grade (I was in 7th grade) noticed them. She asked to see them, and I held out my hand. She asked if I did them. Afraid the laughing would start, I said I did. And she said that she could barely tell, and she liked them. That compliment filled me with happiness.
If only more girls would give other girls compliments.
The trouble with wearing fake nails to school is that they most likely would pop off in school. Several times, I’d dig out my nail glue from my purse and quickly reapply my nail before anyone could see, especially my teacher. But there’d be days when a few nails would pop off of one hand, so then I’d end up peeling off the rest of the nails with my teeth, while in class. I’d pile them on my notebook and then stuff them into my pocket when I was done.
Sticking your fingers in your mouth to bite your nails isn’t a very attractive look. And the crunching sound of your teeth cutting through your nail? Shivers. Definitely not attractive. But nothing is worse than having to spit out or pluck a piece of nail or dried glue off your tongue. Nope. No thanks.
I haven’t worn fake nails since middle school. I just don’t like them. The glue. Having to deal with them popping off. The glue. And I don't get my nails down professionally either because I just don't have the money to blow on that. Now, I let my nails grow freely. I'm fortunate to have nice, natural nails. I haven't painted them in almost two years, but I'm going to try to do that more this year and reacquaint myself with my love of nail polish.
