My Sad French Manicure Compulsion

 

Me and manicures, we have a love / hate relationship.

In my mind, the French Manicure represents a woman who has it all together; she’s smart, has things organized in cute little boxes on her desk, doesn’t have clothes strewn around her room, owns outfits that match, and is successful enough to spend $10 a week on nail upkeep. Perfectly painted fingers are the hallmark of chic and classy.

So, why oh why am I hopeless when it comes to keeping them that way?

Not being able to preserve a French mani makes me feel like a loser. A childish idiot who can’t maintain even the simplest womanly fashion. How hard is it to keep one’s nails at a nicely filed length? How difficult is it to keep that pretty white line from chipping off?

If you’re me, very hard. Incredibly hard. Impossible.

Ever since I’ve become interested in manicures (if you live in New York City, eventually you will start to notice the nail salons that are every 5 feet, and eventually, you will walk inside one), I’ve attempted time and time again to turn myself in a lady by retaining perfectly buffed nails, but it never works.

I get nervous, I bite them. I get stressed, I scratch the cuticles. I open up can after can of Red Bull, one breaks. I accidentally slam my hand in a door, the polish chips. I wait by the phone for a boy to call, the polish is scraped completely off.

A week or so after I’ve spent hard earned money on appearing sophisticated, my hands look like they’ve been through the garbage disposal.

But I can’t stop. I can’t stop pushing open the door to that tiny salon and I can’t stop being a clumsy idiot. Something has gotten inside my brain and convinced me that French Manicures are the way to finding my inner sophisticate.

It’s like a horrible addiction…and those Korean women down the street have my number.

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