Into Your Hands

A few weeks ago at school, a third grader asked if she could pet my nail.

“Pet it?” I asked.

She nodded, brown eyes full of hope.

“Okay,” I said, stretching out my hand.

She reached out a tentative finger, stroked my fourth finger.

“It’s not wet,” she announced, surprised.  “I thought it would be wet.”

Another classmate, wise in the ways of nails, offered, “It’s just shiny.”

“And sparkly,” added another child.

And sparkly. 

Painting my nails is my luxury, an indulgence, a habit.  I do not have much of a beauty regime. My hair is most often found escaping from my bun. Beyond my love of clothes, a proclivity for Victorian earrings and the hasty application of eye makeup and lipstick, I make few daily nods to beauty. I was raised by a mother who was the opposite of vain; she was beautiful and lithe in her youth, a wavy dark pageboy framing her oval face, but though she could have worn clothes like a model, she was completely uninterested in fashion. By the time I was out of college, she favored elastic waist pants—an option in which I, too, delight—thank you, Chico’s—and turtlenecks, a style I detest.  She went to the hairdresser weekly but ignored her hair entirely between visits.  Her skin was as dry as mine, but she eschewed lotions.  I do remember Mom dressed up for an evening out in some gorgeous silk sheath tucked into a fur coat, carrying an evening bag and a handkerchief drenched in scent, but nothing beyond powder and lipstick. What I remember most was the coolness of her mink, the lustre of her pearls or sparkling diamond circle pins worn at her shoulder.

I do not often have my hair done; I like having it washed and having someone else blow it out, but my limp fine hair does not stay tidy for long; I can feel it losing its careful curls or flying away from the spray almost as soon as I leave the salon. I’m one of a handful of women my age with long hair.  This dates from a traumatic cut at 16 when the stylist said to me, “Of course you can use a round brush and what do you mean you need your hair long for the theatre?” She was full of disdain and explained that anyone could learn to blow out her hair and get the “wings” to sweep back from one’s head.  I was, apparently, the one person who could not. I looked preposterous—as soon as my hair grew out, back it went, secured away from my face in a ponytail or on top of my head in a bun. I love the silver streak I inherited from my mom, but I’m often the only one who sees it in, hidden as it is inside my bun.  

On my fiftieth birthday, shortly after my mom’s death, my husband sent me to Canyon Ranch with five friends. There, a representative from Laura Mercier was doing make overs, and we all succumbed, buying the requisite “must have” products. The lovely saleswoman approved my eye makeup routine, teaching me only how to blend a little better in my advanced years and reminding me that concealer was not just for acne but also useful for bags underneath one’s elderly—yet puffy—eyes.

My husband says I can get ready to go out faster than anyone he knows, and this is an odd point of pride for me. I’m not high maintenance when it comes to beautifying.  But there is one ritual I cannot forego.  Every other week, I have my fingernails painted. 

As a young woman living in NYC, though I noticed nail salons on every corner, it did not occur to me that I, a mere mortal, could walk in and have my nails done. A teacher colleague invited me to join her one Friday afternoon, and for $7, I purchased glamour! It’s a slippery slope—nail painting.  Once, one has lovely fingers and toes, it’s hard to go back to naked ones.  The toes got in on the act, too, when I wasn’t even noticing.  In labor with our babies, I focused on my berry-hued toes as I breathed through contractions.  My friend Beth filled me with awe, leaving the salon with wet nails and never, ever messing them up. I always stayed for the ten-minute waiting period, enjoying a shoulder massage,  and still often managed to mar a nail on the way home!

When we moved to Ohio, I said goodbye to the ladies on the corner of York and 86th and discovered Avalon in Beachwood Place. Run by Jen who was efficient and funny, Avalon became my refuge.

I justified the expense of a manicure because I had developed a split on the fourth finger of my right hand; when it’s not painted, it cracks all the way down and is quite painful in the way that small, invisible defects can be.  I decided I would be a Head of School with lovely nails.  The head for whom I worked in Manhattan always had a manicure; she just selected more neutral tones than my own lively selections. 

Every other week, I gave myself over to the fun of choosing a shade of purple—my nails are almost always purple, though today they are teal. I loved the limbo of the hour—being responsible to no one, listening to Vietnamese language swirl around me. I learned the cast of characters—Jen and her husband, her sister, Liz, and Megan, who became “my manicurist.”  Once, when a customer was impossibly rude to Jen, I said I was happy to cede my spot in the queue.  Jen, almost always able to keep her cool, was shaken by the woman—I was happy that I could do something tiny to help. On the day I learned of my father’s death, I went, mechanically, to have my nails done, Jen, kindly ministering to me as I tried to make sense of a life without my father in it. 

When Jen and Liz closed Avalon, I followed Megan to USA Nails, a little further away in Golden Gate.  Mindy became my person; she is gentle, knows I hate to have my cuticles clipped, managed around my cast and braces on my right hand for months and months. She is a constant in my life.  At her encouragement, I switched from gel to dip, though I worry for both of us about the acrid chemical smell of the process—I’m glad we are both masked!  I like the forced lack of productivity, sometimes daydreaming or eavesdropping on the conversations around me. The dynamics of nail techs interest me, but it feels rude to inquire who is connected to whom. Mostly, I surrender and enjoy the moments when Mindy massages lotion into my palms. 

When the pandemic hit, I had to stop having my nails done. I learned how to superglue a tiny piece of a teabag to my nail to keep it from splitting. But now that we are living with Covid, I’ve decided to risk resuming manicures. They make me happy.  And I don’t think manicures rise to the level of vice.  So, I plan to continue to indulge.