I’ve only gotten my nails professionally done twice in my 23 years of living. Once for my 15th birthday, when I lived with my mom and was finally allowed to do things like other girls my age, and again 3 years later for a combination of my senior portraits and homecoming dance.

Because of that, I’ve grew to pride myself on the length and durability of my natural nails.

I noticed the true beauty of imperfect nails my freshman year of college. A coworker was rushing to get settled and clock in, and in the chaos of her stuffing things in her bag, I caught a glimpse of her chipped, deep red nail polish. She held her palms facing her body and bent her fingers to examine her nail polish, wincing before swiftly moving them to her side. 

“They need to be redone, they’re terrible.”

“There’s something so feminine about chipped nail polish” I reassured.

Chipped nail polish tells a story. What was this woman doing to chip the paint on her hands? Where had she been? What has she seen? What places has she left her mark on while they chipped away flecks of her? There is so much beauty etched in the cracks of a layer of nail polish.

More recently, I’ve found a different kind of beauty in my nails. As I’ve entered my 20s and experienced full time work, I’ve slowly lost my desire to keep track of time, my only indication being when the sunsets and it’s time for another night of sleep, and the length of my nails.

In May, I broke a nail and as a result, anxiously bit the rest to nubs. I was devastated, my hands look so stubby when there’s no length to my nails, but what could I do? It was  a while before I looked down one day and realized I had to angle my thumb to do certain tasks, the slowly grown-in nails now in the way.

My nails have gotten longer? How much time has passed? I guess it has been about a month since I bit them.

I’ve gotten a new job, seen new people, reignited my passion for old hobbies. So much life has occurred. 

Then in July, life was interrupted and my nails were bitten to nubs yet again. This time I kept up with painting them when I could, but between work, and sleeping, and wishing and praying for a Time Machine, I lost interest in the seconds that dragged on into hours that dragged on into days and then into weeks. 

Until I looked down at my nails and realized they were long enough to accidentally scrape the wax off a candle if I wasn’t careful enough when I cleaned it. My nails are longer. Again. 

I suppose it has been a month and a half. Of crying. Of confusion. Of doing anything I could to forget- and it worked. The time passed anyway, and the length of my nail can never lie.  

Time flies, tears stream, hair grows, nail polish fades. The sight of new smiles will send goosebumps racing down my skin, new scents will ignite memories, and new laughter will echo, strong enough to penetrate the walls I’ve built around my life, and my nails will keep growing.