In 2011, while the top-ranked Vancouver Canucks powered through the NHL playoffs and barrelled into a seven-game final series, I painted my nails every week in clashy shades of blue and green, each time switching the order of colors but always spelling out the same slogan across my hands: “GO CANUCKS ♥”. I used toothpicks and a drugstore brand nail pen to trace out the sloppy letters, always wobblier on my right hand than on my left. After my team’s crushing defeat, I gave up nail art.

I barely thought about nail polish again until 2020, when I started watching Cristine Rotenberg, AKA Simply Nailogical, a Canadian nail art YouTuber. I played her videos as background noise for cooking and scrolling Twitter, occasionally looking over at the complex designs she was creating on the tiny canvas of a fingernail.

Cristine also pioneered nail porn, a style of nail polish marketing that presents a bottle of nail polish as a sensual, intimate investment. She films polishes pouring from bottles onto tables, brushes fanning over bottlenecks, rich pigments spilling over pristine labels. It’s mesmerizing.

I had those clips of delightful destruction in mind earlier this year as I watched my cousin paint her nails, then accepted, to my own surprise, when she asked if I wanted to do mine as well. (The other prominent influence in that decision was Harry Styles.) The muted single coat of grey-blue felt strange on my fingers, a new weight and texture and appearance that seemed unnatural. Yet once the varnish started to wear off, I asked to use my cousin’s nail polish remover and apply a fresh coat. That second time, when I cleaned the old polish away, my bare nails looked foreign.

Now that I have my own polishes, I’m far from orthodox about painting my nails. I don’t tend toward seasonal colors or designs or orderly patterns. I don’t use a topcoat, a layer of sheer polish that “seals” the manicure and prevents chips. I don’t own nail polish remover; I let the varnish naturally degrade until I can scrape away the last flakes by hand.

Until about ten months ago, wearing nail polish seemed untouchably incompatible with my self-image. I associated its presence on my body—with its long hair and moderate but apparent curves—as too feminine. I saw myself as a beauty minimalist, always angling toward the most natural appearance I could manage with the least maintenance possible. When I’ve applied a fresh coat of formal-looking, not-yet-chipped varnish, those feelings still linger. I tend to be rough on my hands in those first few days, eager to break the illusion of traditional effort and aesthetics.

Returning to nail polish has reminded me that I can enjoy aspects of creating the self I present to the world. It’s also playing at the edges of my capacity for expression, pushing me to find where I’m both comfortable and spirited. I’ve learned that I like relying on the fragments of color at the tips of my fingers and my low-maintenance routine of topping them off every two or three months—I’ll just leave the nail art (and nail porn) to Cristine.

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