My Grandma’s nails
My grandma just sent me a picture of her nails… they’re all glittery and festive, just in time for the holiday season.
Ever since I can remember her, my grandma has always had wild nails. Patterned. Glittery. Colourful. Long and rounded. I can hear the click click of them as they tap against a counter, or a glass of water. I see them too as she knit, sewed and cross-stitched countless hours, rocking away on her chair. Always, always with immaculate nails.
Her nails are a statement. An expression of the season, or of her feelings.
And it is in part because of her nails that I’ve always imagined my grandmother to be the epitome of femininity and grace. Sure, of course, her composure and old fashioned manners fit the bill of something inculcated in our culture about what it means to be a woman. But there was always something about her that I wished I could mimic. The way she applies makeup, even in old age. Or the way she has always kept unfathomably long nails, even as she cleaned and stitched and fed.
I want to be that woman, sometimes.
I want to put on a dress, some heels, a deep red lipstick and purse my lips and walk into a room and turn a few heads.
Unfortunately for me, I hate long nails. I’ve always been a biter, too; filing is just a waste of time. And as for makeup, it turns my skin blotchy red much like most jewelry. Allergies, I was told. Plus, who has time for those when you’re busy rolling around in the dirt?
I guess what I’m trying to say is that there are many different ways to be a woman, to express femininity. But to me, my grandmother was and will always be quintessentially something I admire and gawk at.
