Tsumakurenai (Nail Red)

It happened after I reached my mid-thirties.
I began to be drawn to red nail polish.
Though I don't show it to anyone, painting my nails red on Friday nights (sometimes it's not red, and sometimes I'm too lazy to do anything at all) has become my habit.

When I was young, I didn't like red nails.
They felt garish, and I was certain I would never become such a vulgar woman.
A middle-aged woman with red nails is the worst kind of sin.
I arrogantly assumed they were trying to say, 'I'm still a woman,' and let my self-centered disgust grow.
As for myself, when my workplace went on long holidays, I would book a salon and have my nails done in pale pink with stones and glitter.
Nails chosen because I wanted someone to call them cute.
This was back in my early twenties, when I knew nothing of the world, yet believed I was more valuable than women of any other generation.
That is precisely why I could be cute. Being cute was enough to get by.

More than a decade has passed since then, and I have become the middle-aged woman with red nails that my younger self detested as the worst kind of sin.
I paint all twenty nails red, wear clothes with strange patterns, and walk through the city. I write in my planner at the local Starbucks. I write articles for note at home.
It is such a profitable temperament, to be able to be happy and in a good mood just by doing that.
If I carefully apply red polish to my square-off nails, I don't need any glitter or stones.
For me, nails of solid red are like a declaration that 'I take care of my own mood.'

Back when I had sparkly pink nails, I was ignorant, stupid, and immersed in a belated sense of infantile omnipotence.
Back then, I was all-in on being 'cute,' and it had its own results.
But I couldn't do a single thing for myself.
Because my boyfriend didn't praise me when I cut my hair.
Because my boss pointed out trivial document errors in a snide way.
Because my favorite cosmetics were discontinued.
Because I couldn't get concert tickets.
I would always find reasons outside of myself to be angry, grumpy, or sad.
I couldn't even control my own mood properly, and I lost several friends who had normal judgment.
A boyfriend whose judgment was questionable remained by my side and later became my husband.
Whatever.

The day I became drawn to red nail polish was the day I gave up on becoming a mother.

I was depressed.
But every day passed by calmly outside of me.
Work came regardless of my circumstances, and I had pug sisters, a snake, and a lizard that couldn't live without my care.
I knew I couldn't just keep drifting at the bottom of the water forever.
After my doctor told me the last embryo had failed and I said, 'I'm stopping fertility treatment,' I went straight to the CHANEL counter.
I wanted a lipstick to help me survive as a woman who was neither single nor a mother, and who hadn't chosen that position herself—a drifting, half-finished version of me.
I thought I needed the strength of Coco Chanel, an independent, good woman who worked with pride.
But I impulsively bought nail polish, Le Vernis number 08.
I don't know why. I just desperately wanted to have those nails.
The color, named after the French word for 'pirate,' looked like a drop of ink had been added to deep crimson.
When applied to my nails, it was moist and sultry, and just a little languid and decadent, thanks to the ink-like hue.
And that color suited me very well.
With these fingertips, I can run through the rest of my life. That's what I thought.

Since that day, I have painted my nails red every weekend.
I have collected several shades of CHANEL red polish so I can subtly change the tone with the seasons.

I now understand that there is an age and a style that suits red nails.
I think Mademoiselle Chanel gave me permission to wear red nails precisely because I am beginning to know both the bitter and the sweet, and have grown accustomed to life.
Red nails are a testament to being aloof.
There is a nobility in them—dignified, cool, and truly celebrating being a woman.
The women with red nails I detested back then must have been enjoying being women, too.
I had assumed they were trying to say, 'I'm still a woman,' but that was obvious without needing to assume anything.
A woman is always a woman. And it gets more fun as you get older.
Once you are determined to put yourself at the center, you don't need pink nails meant to please others.
If I have one bottle of red nail polish, I can live.

In ancient times, it is said that people dyed their nails with balsam flowers.
The flower, also known as 'Tsumakurenai' (nail red), has the flower language of 'Don't touch me.'
At the same time, it is also said to mean 'Open your heart.'

'Don't touch me' until you 'open your heart.'

I want to touch from the heart with beautiful fingertips.
I think it perfectly expresses the maiden's heart that dyes its nails, and my heart leaps at the sultry desire that flickers behind it.

The other day, as a reward for myself for writing an essay while literally shaving off my life, I welcomed a new bottle of Le Vernis.
That red, with a slight vermilion tint, suits the summer well.
Decadent red is wonderful, but a bright, 'laughing' red is also good.
While changing into the red nails that suit me at the time, I want to pick up the life I've shaved off, little by little.

An essay submitted to the Creative Awards that shaved off my life.

Is there anyone who comes to me who hasn't read it? Really, I want it to win the Creative Award.

My review of the above. I'm waiting for the Best Reviewer Award.

Thank you for this week as well. It is very nourishing.
We'll be holding the Creative Award Back-Alley Prize ceremony soon, so both section chiefs, please come. The location is Ezo. Plane fare is not provided. But I think it will be cool.