I haven’t been particularly girly since I hit about 8. Before, it was frilly dresses, hair bows, and happiness, but after? Plaid shirts, cargo pants, and a bad attitude. Once I got out of the hell prison that some like to call “middle school”, I tried to turn it around a little bit. I wore blouses instead of basketball teeshirts, jeans that hugged instead of hid me, and I even experimented with makeup. It was really hard at first; I felt like I was betraying almost a decade of hard, tomboy work. But even as I began to get comfortable with some colorful eyeshadow and maybe a skirt or two every once in a while, one thing never changed. No matter how much I tried, I just couldn’t get comfortable with nail polish.
I think it had something to do with the fact that your hands are very present at all times of the day, and that nail polish makes them look radically different. When I tried out a day of polish, I would feel self conscious and hide my hands all day. I’d position my fingers in such a way during class that no one could see the painted tips. Also, I’m way too impatient to paint them properly, so they were always smudged and messy.
So after a while I gave up. I’d paint my toenails because usually people wouldn’t see them and I was free to go through all the colors of the rainbow in the privacy of my own shoes, but my hands were always blank and plain. Usually, I wasn’t too envious of girls who could “pull off”, if you will, nail polish, since most colors were gaudy and didn’t match most of my clothes. However, that was before I started noticing people wearing black nail polish.
And I’m not talking about the goth kids that pierced their lips with clothespins. I’m talking about regular, non-life-hating people. Man, black nail polish looked cool. Unfortunately, the one or two times I got up the urge to ask my mom for some, she said no. I contemplated going the Sharpie direction, but that was a little too permanent for my tastes, and besides, my mom really didn’t like black nail polish. And to be honest, I don’t blame her. It’s a pretty definite choice, and my fashion sense was already confused enough. Plus, I probably would have gotten it everywhere trying to apply it and the whole house would have had little black streaks all over the place.
But Monday night, Colton and Ellen and I stopped by Target after a late dinner at Red Robin because Colton had a gift card and I needed printer paper and foundation powder. While I was browsing the cosmetics section with Ellen, who bought about fifty dollars worth of makeup that night, I came across the nail polish display. Even though I change the polish on my toes maybe once every few months, if that, I always like looking at the displays, because I love all the colors and all the silly names they have. “Commander in Chic,” etc. My old longing for black nail polish ebbed against the back of my consciousness, and all of the sudden I found myself enlisting Ellen to find some. It took us a while (apparently it’s a popular choice), but eventually, I picked up a little bottle of midnight black and there was no turning back. That night, while watching That Thing We Do, I did what I’d been trying to do but never had the courage for about a decade. I painted my nails black.
It’s been a few days now, and I’m excited to report that the experiment was a resounding success. While paler, more inconspicuous colors always made my hands and skin look pudgy and sallow, black seems to be made for me. It’s a masculine enough color so my tomboy side is satiated, but it’s girly enough to give my appearance a shot of femininity that, frankly, it needed. Plus, it’s made everything I’ve worn look automatically more put together, and since there’s about ten feet of snow outside right now I’ve been having to wear boots and leggings (boots so my feet are dry, leggings because my pants would drag in the slush), I always look awesomely punk rock. Yes, awesomely punk rock. Without even trying. My 8th grade Green Day alter ego is weeping with envy, let me tell you.
So why did I just write a 700 word blog about nail polish? Because I feel great. I’ve fought my gender for so long, and it’s been an exhausting battle, but I’m done. I like wearing dresses sometimes, but I’m also most comfy in sweatpants and an old teeshirt, face devoid of makeup and hair pulled back in a pony tail. Do you have any idea how freeing that is? I no longer feel like I have to hide who I am; I’ve finally come to terms with the contradictions and wide range of fashion, and, further more, I’m happy. I love being me. I love wearing boots, leggings, and the dress I stole from my mom with the pockets. I also love wearing my two year old black Converse, ripped-hem jeans, and gray nerdfighterlike teeshirt.
Clothing choices say a lot about a person, so judge me to your heart’s content. You know what my clothes say about me? That I’m Bri freaking Castellini, and I’m ready for whatever you throw at me.
