In terms of familial resemblance, I am firmly and irrevocably aligned to my father’s family. It’s in my complexion – dark – and in the slant of my eyes, and in the more earthy elements of my features. There are some things, however, that come strictly from my mother’s lineage – I am long of limb, despite being a short-arse. I have a nose that looks decidedly like my maternal grandmother’s – there are definite button undertones. But the one thing that marks me as my Nan’s granchild, and my mother’s daughter are my hands. They are small, stubby-fingered, and I daresay, wrinkly. I don’t much like them, which explains why I love nail varnish so much. It helps to pretty stuff up. I love to paint my nails.
The thing with nail polish is, you don’t have to have model hands. And you don’t especially need super great skill, either. I mean, it helps, but mostly what you require is time, polish… and er, that’s it. I sit there, while watching a film/reading a magazine or book/getting my hair braided/whatever, and apply a base coat, two coats of polish and a shiny top coat to seal it. I don’t grow my nails, I don’t do fancy, elaborate designs and art work (for real experimentation, see the lovelyAmber at Phresh Mentality – she once cut up actual dollar bills to decorate her nails, yo!), and my technique is best described as ’sloppy’. But do I love my polished beauties? Do I smile like a Cheshire cat whenever I glance down at my keyboard? Do I walk around like I’m the fanciest damn thing since meat was first wrapped in pastry? Yes, yes, and you betcha!
Pretty nails buoy up my day. They make me that bit more confident. They make me feel a bit more like a grown up, a touch more adult; a little more carnal, I guess. So be it Barry M, OPI, Chanel (I have only ever owned the one bottle – Rouge Noir. Sigh.) or even that nameless one found on a market stall on Leather Lane – and which probably has battery acid as its base – get polishing. And then come back and tell me how much of a change it made to your day.