I miss painting my nails

I am pretty sure I have already written a post to this exact effect but whatever, it is what has been on my mind today and so I want to write about it (again).

I miss painting my nails. The more I think about it, the more awesome it was. Sure, there were some uncomfortable moments - for example when my father asked me if I had begun painting them due to my 'mood'. The more I think about this question, the dumber I think it is. As my father, does he even need to question it? His tone was not entirely disapproving, but I knew he wished I had clear cuticles nonetheless.

Another good one was when I was coaching at fencing. One of the younger kids asked me if I knew my nails were black - I said I had shut all 10 of them in a car door accidentally. Another, older one, 16 or so asked 'if I was a tranny now' - a comment which clearly shows how far my local community, if not many wider communities, have to go.

It was a great icebreaker though - random girls in bars would compliment me on them, and sometimes we'd have a conversation as a result. I'm not used to talking to girls I don't know in bars, but apparently it's something that a lot of men enjoy. Sometimes it was pretty intimidating, but sometimes I liked it. It was a good measure of a person almost immediately - if they thought it was weird or felt uncomfortable because of it, I probably didn't want to pursue any further interactions with them. If they commented positively on it and were supportive, then the opposite was true.

It was a wonderful act of self care too. In his defense, my father was right to some extent - at a time when I was exceptionally low, taking time to apply the nail polish every week or so felt relaxing. I was doing something for myself, to make myself look... perhaps not better, but different, in a way I wanted to be. It was beautifully therapeutic, and I loved that aspect of it.

It was precisely that difference that was why I started doing it in the first place, and why I enjoyed it so much. In some awful, narcisstic, self aggrandizing, self absorbed hyper-bullshit kinda way, I have never felt like I belonged in my environment. I have wanted to be different, disdainful of the people I encountered every day, but I have always felt a strong compulsion to look and act the same way as them. This was my small, silent first step towards rebellion. Men around here don't paint their nails - but I do. I am not like the swathes of complacent, narrow-minded accountants that surround me. I was determined to do something to change my place in our micro-society, to affirm to myself and everyone else that I am not one of them.

I sound almost comically like Holden Caulfield. Perhaps, in consideration of the ideas above, Caulfield is not quite as insufferable as I had considered him to be on first read.

The point is, I miss painting my nails. I stopped because of my job, and I thought it could be weird or awkward, or that I might be treated differently because of it. I want to start again, but I'm too afraid to do so. I wish I wasn't.