How a Pair of Nails Transformed My Life
Using Glamour Magic to Manifest
I am no stranger to reinvention.
About every 8-10 years, I uproot and reconstruct my life. Leave it all to start new – the job, the home, the state, the relationship, the security, the routines, the things, the pets even (that one is always hard). The circumstances of why have always been different, but the need to experience all that this life has to offer remains.
The initial metamorphosis is slow. It starts with a long year or two of discomfort. There’s an ache I can’t shake. Nothing seems to fit ‘me’ anymore. I crave fire, passion, movement, expansion, challenge. I yearn for more self-expression and visibility. I want greater pleasure and joy. Because life just feels so…stagnant and constricted. I’m not growing. I’m bored. I’m tolerating some (or many) toxic things. And the soul and spirit have experienced everything they needed to in the current stage of the journey.
The changes that call me forth are always initiated by a physical purging of my things. What have I been carrying around that I haven’t used for years and certainly don’t need? What clothes feel old? What styles of the previous decade need to be retired? And what have I been desiring to feel, to wear, to take a risk on within me and for me? (I can always tell a life change is coming when I’m ready for a total purge of my personal belongings, a wardrobe overhaul, and to dare sartorially.) Something, something, is asking me to make space for change. Maybe that initial shift arrives in the form of a new silhouette, or an attitude I want to embody. But usually? The initiation into the next evolution of self arrives as a fresh set of long painted nails.
Growing up, there were a few adult women in my orbit who had exceptionally beautiful nails. I have a random and early childhood memory of my stepmom talking about the manicures of her sister and friend (North Jersey, rock and roll, hair band types). In the early 90s, piercing your nails with gold rings and adding diamond stud jewelry was a popular but tacky (I gathered at the time) thing to do. Secretly, I thought it was so cool. I still do.
Then, there was the neighbor in the working-class urban, New Jersey hood of my middle school years, mid-90s, who flawlessly painted her toes and long, square-tipped acrylic wrapped nails every week with swipes of white, black, and pink, then dotted them with faux diamond studs. She appeared so sophisitcated and chic.
During these same formative tween years, I spent my summers in the neighborhood of wealthy White southern women. Their nails were always muted in mauve, French tip, and pearly, opalescent pinks. But there was one woman in particular who had long, oval, red nails. I always managed a secret stare at them, especially as she would affectionately touch her husband. He was a big gentle teddy bear always in a white short-sleeved polo, khaki cargo shorts, and a gentle smile — a true southern gentleman. She was a petite firecracker with short hair, a bright sleeveless polo, and big into cheer. I loved their dynamic. I loved their appearance. I loved their confidence. But I especially loved those nails and the magic they seemed to wield not only between the pair, but everywhere.
Fast-forward to my early 30’s.
I was now living my own adult life, existing in a ten-year relationship going nowhere with an exhausting and abusive narcissist. My body was always tense. I never felt secure. I never felt good enough. I was constantly afraid of being looked at. My nails were painted a solid color every week during this decade (because it was encouraged, but really, expected) and all but one time were they long. Short and slightly squared was the go-to. Safe, soft, and presentable. Compliant.
These nails said “low maintenance” which was really code for “she’s scared.” Scared of being judged. Scared of being abandoned. Scared to be herself. Scared to be loud. Scared to possess personal power. Scared to be in command. And here’s the irony: even though I was deeply scared of being seen, I was dying to be witnessed.
This was something I would have to learn to do for myself — through the application of painted nails.
In the months leading up to the afternoon I decided to leave the relationship of the past decade and embark on a journey of life reinvention, I had been pinning image after image of sassy, long red nails to my personal style boards online. There was an allure I couldn’t put my finger on at the time — I just knew they were calling me, little fingers stretching out and waving me in toward a new life.
At this same time, I attended a Barbra Streisand concert. I was not a Barbra fan, I didn’t know much about her music, and I definitely did not know she had an album called “The Way We Were” with a cover image of Barbra’s face and one of her hands wrapped around the corner of a wall, accented with breathtakingly long red nails. But there I was, and there was that picture with those long red talons projected onto the wall of the concert venue mesmerizing me, absolutely by the will of the nail gods.
Weeks later, I had a style consultation with a friend who encouraged me to get a pair of those nails for myself. Of course, I laughed at the idea. Second-guessed if it was really something for me. Thought maybe I didn’t have what it took to be ‘that’ woman — the one with vision, confidence, opinions, desires…self-empowerment.
But through a deep breath (no, several) I went ahead and booked myself an appointment at the most sophisticated boutique nail art salon in the big city I could find. I knew exactly what I wanted (the Bab’s nails), and I knew they could make them for me.
When I sashayed out of that salon two and a half hours later I was transformed. My hips swayed with more sass. My hair had extra bounce. My lacquer red nails rivaled the strength of Cupid’s arrows. I felt alive for the first time in years. And, I knew people were seeing me.
Less than three months later, folks would see my life would look radically different too.
There’s something bad ass about a set of long painted nails. Whether the paint is purple, neon green, French-tipped, iridescent, clear, red, or an amalgam of everything. Long nails make a statement about what you’re willing to tolerate and what you’re not. The way they point at something tells you which way they want something or someone to move. Even the simplest of gesticulations becomes the direction of energy.
On a late summer afternoon, by Divine intervention, I met my now or never moment to leave the life I knew. I said goodbye not only to a person, but to all the stuff, my routines, homes, income, what I once perceived as security, a pet – and most important, the abuse. It was a wild and nerve-wracking time, but the long set of nails kept me going. I felt I could persevere through anything as long as I had them.
When you shift your self-concept, the world’s concept of you changes. It responds to the new identity.
I certainly could not have imagined what was ahead of me after changing my ‘look’. (In that first year of freedom I bought my first car, reunited with my dad after seven years, met a long-term lover, endlessly traveled around the US, experienced career highlights, lived in places and spaces I only ever dreamed of prior, made my best creative work…and began a healing journey that would crack me open for the woman I was meant to become.)
In the nearly 10 years since, I have had my nails done only a handful of times, and each time, they have continued to clear the path for transformative change. (Like during that summer I was 40, restless, and anticipating another reinvention.)
It came. One week after the fresh application of exquisite long red nails.
Like a roaring fire through a thirsty forest, the transformation arrived. Wildly fast.
I was thrown. Overcome. Spiritually upended.
My life ‘Pirated’ by a set of Chanel rouge nails.
What did life end up looking like this time? The same but different.
My most favorite job quit. My sense of security redefined. Life packed up into a storage unit. An eight-year relationship ended. And a three-day drive to a city I’ve never lived to make home with a man whom I had spent a total of 60 hours with prior to moving in — a man who now gladly pays for the upkeep of my nails.
You better believe those nails will be kept up so that life continues to expand.
Looking back, I see the women of my childhood investing in their nails as an investment in themselves, and I am certain this act of self-care imprinted on me so that I would not forget how to wield my internal magic as an adult.
As I take my first steps in this next chapter that is my 40’s, a pair of long painted nails have not only become a symbol of self-reclamation, but of declaration. With these nails, I declare what I want, and I go after it. With these nails, I direct the energy of my life. With these nails, I become ME.
