Self-Love Embedded in My Nails

Why do I get my nails done? I wondered, staring at the nimble fingers and the top of the head of the woman doing my nails.

I love having my nails done, but I dislike nail salons.
The booth next to me is buzzing with excitement, filled with complaints about boyfriends and stories of failed drinking parties. I listened in, impressed, thinking, 'So it really does happen—hooking up with someone you just met because of the alcohol.' Meanwhile, I have no stories of my own, so I don't know what to talk about. Would it be funny to say, 'My boyfriend's bedhead looks like the Negi-star person from GANTZ every single time'? Should I try saying that? As time passes, the hurdle to start a conversation just keeps getting higher. So, I spend the hour in silence, thinking about how the filing hurts or how the lamp is hot and painful. I know I could watch Netflix on the tablet sitting on the table with the power off, but I can't even bring myself to ask to watch it. The hour spent at a nail salon is longer than any other hour.

Today, I was guided to a booth with a hard chair, so I've been shifting my weight from one side to the other, thinking about how much my butt hurts, when a burst of laughter, 'Hahaha!', erupts from the booth next to me. In my booth, the 'beep' of the lamp turning on, the sound of the woman occasionally sniffing, and the ticking of the clock ring out clearly.

...It's awkward. No matter how many times I come here, I never get used to this awkwardness. The woman probably doesn't think anything of it. There must be others who share this space just like me. Even knowing that, awkward is still awkward. And yet, when I step out of the nail salon and see my sparkling fingertips, I feel like skipping, and I completely forget the awkward time I just spent. Then, three weeks later, I go back to the nail salon, never learning my lesson.

Come to think of it, there are a lot of strange things about beauty. Painting mysterious liquids onto nails to harden them, or patting powder onto our faces. We go out of our way to stop hair that grows instinctively from growing, while we try our hardest to grow the hair above our eyes.

My life is, quite frankly, tossed around by such strange things.

I first woke up to beauty in my second year of high school. Since I attended a local school that called itself a 'preparatory school,' makeup was naturally forbidden. However, at the time, I was genuinely in love with Gen Hoshino, and I started wearing makeup after winning tickets to his concert. I studied on YouTube every day, making full use of cosmetics that were incredibly kind to a high schooler's tight budget, like 'CANMAKE' and 'Chifure'.

When I wore lipstick to school for the first time, a classmate I only spoke to occasionally pointed at me and said, 'Oh! You're wearing lipstick!' I made an excuse, saying, 'I just put on too much lip balm... um, yeah.' I still don't know why I can't forget that the classmate then said in a small voice, 'Yeah, that's a stretch.' I even remember the lipstick shade number. It was Chifure 549. (A red lipstick that is truly a stretch to call lip balm.)

When it came to beauty, I was always obsessed, a little bit crazy.

My mother laughing at my nose contour, saying I looked like Demon Kogure. Only my twin sister, whom I thought looked exactly like me, making it onto the 'cute girls' ranking in the graduation album. Getting orthodontics with money I earned from a part-time job while being nagged, 'I told you to do this when you were in elementary school!' A post on Twitter saying, 'Fat people shouldn't wear skinny jeans' appearing on my feed, which made me unable to eat for half a year. After getting double eyelid surgery, my eyes started bleeding, and I went to a clinic two hours away by train three times a week. I sat on the train seat wearing glasses, pulling my hat down low, and clutching my backpack tightly. My hands holding the backpack were trembling uncontrollably. I know no seat colder than that one.

My beauty exists alongside many, many unforgettable stinging pains (sometimes physical).

Looking back, I feel like the noblemen who were obsessed with Princess Kaguya. For the sake of a single 'ideal'—a person from the moon who is impossible to obtain—they desperately search for treasures that they don't even know if they can find. They create fakes, and some even lose their lives. It's so desperate, so pathetic, and so crazy.

If you ask me if it would have been better not to encounter beauty, that's not the case either. Until I encountered beauty, I always hated myself. I was afraid of being thought of as ugly or told to shut up, so I couldn't even say 'Please give me a Famichiki' at a convenience store. While studying for tests, I would look in a hand mirror and massage my eyelids over and over, wishing for double eyelids. Just study, I tell myself.

Beyond the self I hated and the crazy efforts I made, I can now tell myself 'You're cute' every morning after finishing my makeup. I no longer feel intimidated in stylish shops, nor do I hold back because I feel I'm not good enough for someone I've fallen for. I wear clothes from brands I once admired but thought didn't suit me, and I work at a cosmetics company I once dreamed of.

If the past me was a noble, then surely the current me is Princess Kaguya. Thinking that makes every version of me feel precious, lovable, and proud.

'All done! How does it look?'

I snapped back to reality and realized the nail salon woman was looking at me. That's right, I was getting my nails done. I had been staring blankly at the top of her head, so our eyes met perfectly.

'It looks amazing.'

I said, nodding while looking her straight in the eyes. Simple white, one-color nails with pearls placed elegantly. It was the ideal finish, just like what I had seen on Instagram.

I finished paying, walked down the stairs, and went outside. The midday sun was as dazzling as a disco ball, and particles of light flowed smoothly through the clear air. I held my hand up toward the sky. My nails sparkled, wrapping my heart in warm light. The little pains and awkward moments flew away and vanished into the light.

I wanted to put my smartphone in my bag, but I felt like the nail polish might come off if I handled my hand roughly, so I opened the bag's zipper carefully. My thumb brushed against the handle. I pulled my hand away quickly, gently stroked the pearl on my thumb, and checked to make sure it was still there. It was fine, it was still there. A precious offering, by me, for me.

I planted my feet firmly on the ground, ready to float away, and took a step forward.