Ask anyone that knows me and they’ll tell you that I am a tad bit late for the feminine train. Well, maybe a little more than a tad, perhaps an hour. Or a day. Or… I guess I’ll just take a bus.
One of these feminine traits that I seem to have missed in my womanhood training is the elusive fingernail. Painting my nails or growing them out has never been on my to-do list, and if anything is on my try-as-hard-as-you-can-to-avoid-it list. You ever get the feeling after you’ve painted your nails that they’re just dying underneath the gloss and are slowly suffocating a long, painful, oxygen deprived death? Color-me-morbid, but that’s what I feel on the rare occasions I have to paint them. My nails are also tiny, as in the nail beds haven’t grown in size since I was 10. One generous smear from a nail polish brush and they’re pretty much set, often with leftovers for the next guy. I remember one time in high school my mother brought me to her friend’s nail salon to get them done; the woman almost burst at the seams while trying not to laugh at how tiny they were. (They still got painted regardless. It was a frustrating process). My nails also seem exponential smaller because I can’t seem to let myself grow the nails past a millimeter; any longer and I start clipping away at them like a mad woman on meth.
That there is where I make up for nail care: I won’t color them, I won’t grow them, but I will clip and file and straighten them out like my life depends on it. Even back in the day when I used to bite my nails (which only stopped a little over a year ago) I would bite them with style. Meaning that I would take a glance at my nails between chomps to make sure they were being evenly and equally destroyed. I know, it doesn’t make sense, but that’s how I roll. My nails are socialists.
Lo and behold, even when I stopped biting my nails I still obsessed over them. It’s not to the point that I’ll carry around a nail file with me in my pocket, but it’s pretty damn close. If the edges aren’t perfectly smooth or even, I’ll go over them with a fine file and fix the error as soon as I can access one. Seeing as how nails are constantly growing, you can correctly assume this becomes as regular as brushing my teeth. Recall, my nails aren’t even that big, so all this effort I put into making them even is comparable to a bald guy meticulously combing, shampooing, and conditioning his three strands of hair: there’s just no point. You still look idiotic.
Now if I had long nails, this sort of behavior wouldn’t be quite as quirky and you would at least have something to show for all the effort. Like:
But instead you get me, obsessive girl with sad comb over mentality with elementary school girl nails. Not only do I put in borderline OCD (God I hope it’s only borderline) amounts of time and effort, I have absolutely nothing to show for it.