One Chipped Nail

I have a chipped nail.

If this happened to me one year ago, I would have stared at it like a cracked window; a failure to be immediately repaired. An independent city woman must show no signs of weakness! I have matured since.

Outwardly I have definitely matured. There are the scars along my jaw from acne that plagued me, layers of brown freckles across my cheekbones, and fine lines around my eyes from laughing (those were a good investment). A small pocket of gravity under my chin has taken up real estate.

The most impactful change is internal, because I no longer wish to treat my body like a project under constant renovation. For one full calendar year I didn’t visit the nail salon to get polished because I wanted to see what would happen. They looked healthier without the drama of gels, UVs, buffing, and acetone baths. I noticed details about them, like how when they soaked in water they turned translucent like tiny sheets of wet paper. When left alone they flattened slightly, relaxing into their natural shape.

This was my natty phase. A natural woman with no nail or hair appointments, no injections, no coloring, no extensions. I wasn’t morally superior to anyone who preferred otherwise- me being a natty didn’t make the others falsies. All it meant was that I spent less money on my appearance and gained a few hours of my life back each month.

This week, I went for a manicure for my 37th birthday - French almond (my signature look) with a light pink base. Inevitably, one nail chipped within two days. No one noticed except me, it was a secret between myself and my right hand until now. I peek at it and softly whisper: “They don’t know it… but I’m an absolute friggin’ mess” with a slight chuckle.

So, science has taught me that my WPM typing speed increases as the length of my nails decrease. The padded tips of fingers are far more cooperative than the clickety-clack of calcium deposits. And OH BOY, how much I used to hate spelling errors. As a twelfth grade spelling bee champ, it would be a betrayal against the Kalyn of her youth. As a recovering perfectionist I now find myself looking for flaws to smile because we are humans, not bots. Seeing KALYN as KAYLN or KAYLIN used to devastate me. Now I’m glad the person made the attempt to write my name in the first place.

In this digital age, perfection is coveted, images are endlessly filtered, smoothed, and enhanced. People don’t want to develop with grace, they manufacture themselves to seem unblemished.

But our hands age differently than the rest of our bodies. I’ve heard the hands don’t lie. And you know what? In the past few months mine have lived through a lot.

In the kitchen they chopped vegetables, baked bread, twisted open lids, and opened cans.

At my desk they filled another journal, turned pages, and highlighted sentences that deserved a second thought.

At the gym they balanced my body in plank, crow, and headstand. They gripped weights, glided water, cut through air.

They squeezed loved ones tightly. They folded clothes to donate to the less fortunate. They packed birthday goodie bags for the ones who have known many versions of myself. They’ve held babies.

And once, I smacked myself for having intrusive thoughts about being imperfect (kidding, it was merely a light spank.)

I’ve had accidents. I scraped a knuckle, dropped a glass, and burned skin superficially with a straightener.

I don’t know the backs of my hands very well because I look at them differently every day, but I do know this.

They’ve been everywhere with me.