Yes, those disheveled nails belong to yours truly. But remember, sometimes the most banged up tools are the best. They've been used the most and have seen the most action. I think after you read this entry, Dear Ether, you'll think these beasts might actually be beauties.

Dear Ether,

I sit here writing to you with the tools that have made me my living—my fingers.  I’m a professional writer and have earned my keep writing for the most “chi-chi” and best-known magazines in the world.  My specialty is beauty.  That’s why this entry is going to be so ironic.  It is about being a nail/cuticle biter.  It’s my dirty secret.  Why would a girl, who should be treating the tools that pay her income so well (actually, the gig could pay better), treat them so badly?  Also, as a beauty writer, beautifully manicured hands are part of the job.  You have no idea how many times I’ve not shaken hands with people, or turned down an ultra-luxe free manicure session because of my mangled talons.  

I’ve tried racking my brain to figure out my first memory of when I started to chew.  All I can think of is being about 8 years old in our black Jeep Cherokee.  I was in the back seat with my older brother and Elton John was belting out some tune (my parents loved Elton John—I think they bronzed that bloody cassette).  I was staring out the window and my mom said “Stop biting!”  I think I was so shocked, because I didn’t realize what I was doing.  From then on it plagued me.  Mom bought disgusting nail polishes promoting a bitter taste that would supposedly make you not want to gnaw.  So guess what? I picked.  People slapping my hands away from my face.  My poor mother even tried being a “good cop” and started taking me for manicures when I was a kid.  It didn’t work.  1 day later the cuticles were a bleeding mess.  Some kids use that damned dummy, others sucked their thumbs. I guess I chewed my nails.  Here’s the problem, except for a few drugged out ravers who suck rampantly on candy that looks like a pacifier, I’m way too old to still have a childlike oral fixation. 

I’m sure there are plenty of you out there saying, “wait, I’m a chewer too and I don’t have a childlike oral fixation!” Mmmm. Hmmmm.  I know.  I see you out there.  Chewing nervously waiting for your bus, or picking with your pointer finger at your thumb sitting at your desk.  Are you sure you don’t?  Really think about it?  Let’s pretend WE do, Ether?  So, what’s our deal?  I used to think I did it to cover up my face when I got nervous in situations.  Like a smoker, it gave me something to busy myself with so I wasn’t just standing there with nothing to say.  But, that wasn’t it.  And truthfully, I smoke a bit (Ether, especially Californian Ether’s, don’t judge me—how I began smoking is a good little story and I will tell you soon, and don’t worry, I’m not terribly hooked, but I will say damn, a good drag is delectable with a cup of coffee!) so that didn’t replace my chewing like I thought it might.  I also am a gum fanatic—you’d think that would solve it.  Nope.  I go through phases.  I can go a month with lovely, clean nails and without fire engine red cuticles, but then something compels me, and just like that, I snap (well, my jaws do—around my fingers).  

I once had a meeting with Nails Inc. a very big nail brand in the UK.  I tried to cancel a million times, but they were advertisers for the magazine and alas, the meeting happened.  For days I didn’t pick.  But it had been a bad bout, and the damage was too deep to heal by the time I had to meet with the PR’s.  My assistant let me know they’d set up in the meeting room, and when I walked in horror struck.  There was a mini nail salon to show me their newest autumn manicure.  I had no choice, I had to fess up.  Like a therapy session, I let loose.  These unsuspecting ladies listened, nodding their heads like we were sorority girls and they were my sisters.  No tears were shed, but they did kindly turn off the aromatic bubble-making machine.  They knew I needed the silence for my heartfelt speech.  They felt my pain.  We decided that one of the PR’s would have the manicure instead to demonstrate.  Phew!  After it was all over, they told me about this program their company had.  The nail biters club.  (Yep, there are enough of us that we need a “club”).  I perked up and was intrigued.  They warned me that I had to stay committed.  I promised I would.  Every week I was to come in, have a paraffin treatment (this is where they take your hands and place them in a wax which then softens the hands and cuticles) and they would give me intensive cuticle treatments and a clean, crisp manicure.  They swore that within 2 months I would be healed.  Smiles all around, we shook hands (well, I kinda bowed—remember—I don’t shake hands) and the following Monday I began.  2 months later my hands looked like they could model for Chanel Vamp.  I was so proud.  I was wearing those trendy, oversized rings.  Even shaking hands!  But then, one night, like a binge eater, something happened.  Like a tick, I began to pick.  It was slow.  I felt a slight raise in one of my cuticle beds and pulled.  It felt soooo good.  By the end of the hour I had my old hands back.  I tore off my rings, picked off the polish (another delectable delight) and in a dirty way felt relieved.  Who was I kidding?  There was no way I was healed from 2 measly months of “therapy.”  I needed years! 

It’s really funny.  Essie just sent me their newest collection from their neon palette.  They have such trendy 80’s colors that if I wasn’t a self-masticating mess I’d go to the nail salon and go a bit mad.  But, I put them away in my beauty cupboard where other nail polishes rest in peace.  If I have an interview or meeting, I’ll go to a cheap place and have them clean up my hands (and get scolded in Vietnamese about the state of my claws).  But, you know what, these messed up, ugly old fingers have composed some of the most beautiful writing I have ever done, clapped at some of the most amazing performances I’ve ever seen, taken some remarkable photos, touched people I’ve loved dearly, and felt stone buildings in England that are older than the country I was born in.  One day I might just stop chewing.  My brain may figure out the mystery of why I do it and just halt.  But for now, I’ve done pretty well with these beasts and gotta “hand it to myself” (don’t roll your eyes, you would have taken the cliché if you could have too), so far, as fucked up as I think I am, I’m still here ticking away.  Just maybe not as “hands”-somely as others (okay, okay, you’re right, that was too much….pushed the pun way too far).

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

PS: If you are at all interested in the lovely shade of varnish in the picture above (or what’s left of it), it’s “Geranium” by Essie (A perfect shade of coral that looks delightful on all skin colors–especially on tanned skin—trust me—it looks a helluva lot better on my toes!).