Salon quality nails without the salon quality small talk!
I took the L train home from work a couple of weeks ago and watched as a young girl peeled her purple acrylic nail from her finger, all shifty-eyed like, “Eff, I hope nobody saw me do that.” We made eye contact and I just side-smiled and shrugged like, “Gotta do you, bb.” She then proceeded with the next finger.
After bitching endlessly about how much nail art irks me in my “naked nails” post, I decided to do some research to see what it’s like having foreign objects glued to my hands.
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“This is what all the girls are doing in Japan,” she said, painting around the edges with sporadic dabs of silver glitter, which ended up looking really cool and fairy-princess-y.
We dubbed the finished nails “Priscilla Presley Does Kawaii.”
They weren’t acrylics, which “take forever, smell like shit, and are hard to remove,” according to Claire, but rather fiberglass. Sexy! Two hours later, I had pointed, minty fingertips that I planned to actually keep on for more than a couple of hours worth of running around with a camera. REAL LYFE, YO’S.
Straight out the nail salon, I’m finding everything exponentially more difficult. (Including typing this, FYI.) So hard to fish my key out of my pocket--I’m definitely getting a keychain tomorrow. Right now, there's a piece of duct tape wrapped around the top.
Also, using product that comes in tubs is a pain in the ass. You can’t scoop anything out without filling your huge undernail crevices with cream or exfoliant or whatever. I found it strange to wash my hair.
On the plus side, I can’t pick at my skin even if I wanted to. But I also can’t properly apply eye cream and moisturizer. Small pats with my fingertip? LOL to that! I could legit lose a pupil.
Fresh-out-of-the-package AA tights look like they’ve been mauled by the dumbest of fat drunk cats.
Kawaii 3D bow fell off while trying to adjust my now drop-crotch tights in the bathroom. It just… gave up. I’m left with a disgusting bald spot on my left thumb. I still can’t fully pull up my tights, and it sucks to walk.
Applying makeup is hard, especially because I pat everything on with my fingertips. Considering using more brushes, but mostly I’m just considering removing these nails and moving forward with my life.
Subways are hell. I look like a disorganized drunk suburban housewife digging through my wallet for my metro card. Swiping it was equally stupid-looking as I clutched the flimsy card between just the nail tips, otherwise the nails would have gotten in the way of the scanner. PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE. Bahhhh!
I’m freaking out everyone around me awkwardly fidgeting my hand into what little space there is to grab on this pole for balancing purposes. Conclusion: these nails are only for chicks that take cars.
At work, typing blows. That’s OK because now I can work less. I’ll just dictate my G-chats and sexts to an intern: "Just be like, 'I miss you too, bb.' And go to photos and pick that one where I'm in the pink bodysuit. No, don't capitalize 'bb'--that's weird."
Also: opening things.
I feel like I’m wearing stilts on my fingers.
Tried to paint the disgusting polish-less thumb crater in with a weird iridescent nail polish sample that we had at the office. Obviously, it looks worse.
Went shopping; sales girl is being nice, but I can tell she’s disgusted.
Caught a glimpse of myself in the window on the bus in my leather hat and carpet blue bomber jacket with leather moto details. Nails complete the overall bad-ass-ed-ness of my “look.” Considering keeping them around? Maybe?
Made pozole and nicked my nail because I couldn’t properly hold the knife. Praise Jesus for sending invisible little baby angel cupid to guide the knife in such a way that I didn’t cut off a finger. Did some arts and crafts with some leaves and paper; looked like the baddest of bitches. They’re growing on me.
Still haven’t gotten a keychain.
I can’t type fast enough to keep up with my thoughts. They’re like a mile a minute with such tone and inflection that it’s hard to record them properly with all of the required punctuation. The nails have become detrimental to my writing. Stressing out because I feel like I’m going to fall back on getting stories turned in and thus fade into obscurity.
Continuing to poke holes in my clothing, especially lacey thong waistbands and tights. Jean flies have proven to be a challenge to zip up.
I had to meet some potential new roommates at their apartment, one of which told me that she thought I was a total bitch because my introductory email was too short. Uh, yeah that’s because I can’t type very well with these effing nails... AND I'M RESPONDING TO A CRAIGSLIST AD. (EDIT: Found out later that I DIDN’T GET THE STUPID APARTMENT. Can’t help but think the nails are to blame, because I am adorable and awesome. Really I should be thanking the nails, because I’m glad to not be living with anybody whose Craigslist ad reads like the cast bio of some lame reality show. “So-and-so, the token European…” Pshh.)
I was going to soak my nails in acetone and hope for the best, but Olivia and I are going to this Adidas nail party tonight, and who will be there? FNGRBLSTR. That’s who. I don’t want her to think that I pussied out so quickly. Must… en… dure.
At the party, everybody has some sort of extreme nail/hat/shoe/gold game going, so I actually didn’t feel too out of place. The pretty chick from My Super Sweet 16 designed some shoes, and thus the party, and thus was I like, “OMG that’s the chick from Super Sweet 16.”
On the way to meet friends to go to this other thing and it happened: one of the nails was like, “Later!” and broke off.
Of course I was irked and annoyed, but whatever. I was going to be at a place where everybody would be heavily sedated--it’s OK if I looked like a crackhead. It was Vice's Spring Breakers premiere party, in case you’re wondering. I had perfect hair also, and that’s usually the first thing to go upon becoming a crackhead, right?
It was the weirdest party I had been to since that expensive rave in Queens. I had developed a petite case of stress about the crackhead nails now that it felt like every single rich frat person that I hated in college was at the party. (Still can’t figure out what the SAEs and Kappas in their Dirty Sixth St. finest were doing there.) But I was, like, VIP because I went with my friend who is an a-list internet journalist. You might know him from such works as “The Westminster Dog Show on Acid.” So, you know, we got to cut the line, nbd. (He also showed up to meet me with a keychain.)
Once inside, all I know is that there were strippers in ski masks and that eventually some of the Adidas party started to trickle in, and basically I lost an adjacent nail at some point that night.
OMG big day ahead. Like I said, I’m going to brunch with friends and also: shopping spree. I finally got out of bed upon hearing that my people were ready to meet, and there was simply no time to deal with the nails. Also, we’d definitely be going to one of those brunch places where it’s expected that you look totally skanky and nobody’s going to judge you for it.
Wrong. I meet friend of friend and she seemed to keep her distance from me as any sane person would politely keep their distance from that stranger that wants to follow you on your errands today just to “hang out.” (This actually happened to me last time I went to Seattle.)
I’d like to also point out that NOBODY makes a good Mexican brunch up here. If a Mexican restaurant that’s open in the morning doesn’t have migas on the menu, then it’s just spicy food that exists in the morning time, not brunch.
One of the first stops on the post-spicy-morning-food shopping spree was Patricia Field. I wanted some really skanky crop tops, the stupidest pair of Tripp pants, and some huge plastic stripper earrings, OK? (Not being sarcastic.)
After apologizing for my busted set while trying on some huge rhinestone lip hoops, the sales associate assured me that my nail situation “happens to everyone at some point!”
Wait, at what point does this happen? Did he mean, like, each time a chick gets her nails done, the fake claw lifespan will come to an end and it’s time to go back to the salon? Or did he mean, like, “We all go through dramatic life crises and sometimes people can lose self-respect and leave the house looking like a cheap ho”?
We got hungry again an hour later (which would never happen if I had some proper f------ migas), so we got tacos. It was at La Esquina that I peeled off the remaining sparkly pastel chips of fiberglass and resin from my fingertips and handed them off to my lunch bud, who kept them in his pocket. SORRY for our fellow diners that got grossed out, but welcome to Taco Stand Land, you fancy NYC jerks. You don't wanna know the stuff I've seen go down at El Chilito.
I then came up with the idea for my latest business venture: Nasty Nails. Basically it’s jewelry made from the used fake nails of hot chicks. You get a pic and a short bio of the girl whose nails are dangling from your neck or wrist or ears. You guys like?
Then we shopped some more and actually saw Spring Breakers. Did you guys notice that their nails stayed perfectly manicured throughout the entire movie? They were doing blow off some lady’s chesticles and playing with nunchucks but didn’t manage to chip a nail? These chickens discovered gels but can’t get a proper dye job? Ski masks.
I tried to remove the excess glue and polish with some acetone remover, but it wouldn’t melt into a toxic chemical vapor residue fast enough, so I filed my nail beds down with a coarse emery board and painted them with Butter London’s base coat and their most unassuming fleshy color. And vigorously rubbed my nubby hands into my eyeballs BECAUSE IT FEELS GOOD.
I’m going to be popping gelatin pills for the next month or so until I can grow back my perfectly ridge-less and not-at-all-flimsy natural nails. I’d like to say that I’ll never get fakes again, but I can’t predict the future, you know? I work at a beauty website, I’ll probably end up doing something stupid to my fingernails next week.