From Nubs to French Tips
I’ve never been the poster child for perfect nails. Honestly, my cuticles have seen more neglect than my garden, and that’s saying something. But hands tell stories, don’t they? Nails reveal whether we’re working, stressing, pampering ourselves, or just plain giving up.
As a kid, I spent summer days with my grandma. She carefully removed polish, trimmed her cuticles, filed her nails, and reapplied a fresh coat of classic red. I, meanwhile, gnawed my nails down to nubs and hid them in embarrassment. Still, I refused to crack my knuckles because I figured someday I’d want my hands to look nice. Nails could grow back, but I didn’t want permanently mangled hands.
When I married Tom, I don’t remember doing anything special with my nails. But near the end of our marriage, I started getting acrylics. After counseling sessions, we hired a cleaning lady, and I began scheduling nail appointments. I kept my nails short and tried every color I could find. Having my house cleaned and my nails done every two weeks made me feel rich—like I had finally cracked the code on self-care. Those little luxuries were worth every penny.
That changed once we had our boys. Money tightened, and regular nail appointments went out the window. At the same time, teaching left my hands raw from constant washing, and I developed the bad habit of tearing at my thumb cuticles until they were ragged. Self-care looked a lot different during those years—more like survival care.
Now I’m back in the nail chair. I like them short, squared off, and usually topped with a French manicure. Nothing fancy, but polished enough to make me feel classy and put together.
My daughter, on the other hand, goes full “bling.” She loves long nails, charms, glitter, and drama—each nail a tiny billboard for her personality. Her friends are the same. They don’t just get nails for birthdays and quinceañeras but also for school starting, dances, and holidays. Somehow, there’s always money for nails. That—and eyelashes. (To me, it looks like a whole colony of caterpillars has taken up residence on their eyelids, but apparently, that’s considered beautiful.)
So my nails tell a story of seasons—embarrassed beginnings, pampered indulgence, raw practicality, and now a return to a simple polish-and-go routine. They’re not flashy, but they feel like me. And if you ever notice me with ragged cuticles, don’t assume I’m quirky or nostalgic. It probably just means I’m struggling and overdue for some tender loving care.
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