Deptford Nails
I normally get regular manicures at a nail salon in Deptford (called 'Deptford Nails') with my housemate Dora. It's a small care-ritual we enjoy together, that we began just after she moved in about a year ago.
It usually starts with us both simultaneously deciding that we are now unhappy with the current state of our nails, and it's about time that we deserve a treat! When the planets align (i.e. we have £25 and a free couple of hours), we walk to 'Deptford Nails' together, excitedly deliberating the new colour we are going to choose. This colour choice is most important! It will dictate our '#mood' for the next month or so. Somehow, the question 'what type of person do we want to be?' gets simplified into this colour choice decision; bright, 'natural', classic, glittery etc.
When we arrive we say hello to the ladies that work there, and they ask what type of service we want. We always choose 'soak off then SNS', or 'SNS refill' if we're on a budget. We receive a cup of instant coffee with a sugar, and the colour discussion continues as we get handed the plastic display stand with the full range. Any colour we had previously planned, usually gets instantly forgotten as we spot something more exciting from the display. We then get rushed to make a final decision (because our indecisiveness gets frustrating to watch) and we have to commit, risking a colour we may regret later.
There's normally something completely unrelated, like the snooker or 'The Kardashians' to watch on the TV, whilst we sit with our hands in front of us on the table. The lady then takes each finger, and files off the old polish with a tool that looks like it belongs in a dentist's surgery. We then get told to go to the sink, and wash off the dusty nail filings with water. We sit back down, and with speed and precision, she re-coats each nail with polish and the SNS dipping powder. We place our hands under a warm air dryer, and the process gets repeated. A final buff to smooth any roughness, and a glossy clear top coat gets applied. Cuticle oil and a lanolin hand cream to finish. My coffee often goes cold, but I drink it anyway out of politeness.
It's cash only (and we always forget) so we quickly nip to the pound shop next door where there is a cash machine, then return to pay.
On our walk home we talk about how great we now look, how much better this makes us feel, and then how much we appreciate living together and each other.
The last time we did this was the beginning of February, and we were due another session just as the quarantine set in. As a non-essential business, Deptford Nails had to close until further notice. Our nails became very long, and I had to adapt my hand movents to accomodate for this. I'd gotten used to holding and using things in slightly different ways (pens, knitting needles, my phone, laptop keyboard etc). The extra length was sometimes useful and sometimes inconvenient, but the long nails had become my normal, I suppose, and part of me enjoyed the hyper-feminine, dainty ridiculousness of it all. You could see about a half a centimetre of my natural nail growing from the bottom and people started to comment on their extreme length. "Oh my god, how do you do things?", "George, I can't take you seriously with those nails!". Dora didn't like the way hers were growing out, as a few of her nails had started growing in a bit of a curved shape. She said "look, it looks like a birds beak", and I overheard her friend saying "Dora, they look butters!"
About a week ago, the polish began to chip. I had been desperately trying to repress the compulsion to pick off the hard polish, as I knew that if I did so, my nails underneath would be damaged beyond repair. You hear horror stories of how most of the nail comes off with the polish as you pick it, and when people describe their nails as 'paper thin' it always makes me feel a little bit sick. I decided I needed to remove it properly, then ordered some acetone from 'Amazon'. It said it would take three days to arrive, so in the meantime I decided to try and cut them down to a more manageable length and ignore the temptation to nibble the edges. My tiny nail scissors could barely cope with the thickness of the SNS coating. I hacked away, and eventually got them down to a more manageable length by brute force (not recommended). As I filed the sharp edges, the change admittedly, felt much better, but I did miss the way they used to look. This aggressive cutting just made the polish chip off more, making the temptation to pick almost unbearable.
The acetone arrived today, and so I immediately went to soaking the remaining polish off as the internet recommended. I made a kind of spa-bain-marie (large bowl with boiling water from the kettle, smaller bowl placed inside with the acetone, tea-towel over the top) and placed my hands in the warm liquid. After a few minutes I could start rubbing the polish off revealing nails that hadn't been exposed to the air for months. They felt fragile, and rough. The acetone also sucked all the moisture out of my skin, and so every hand movement felt restricted. As soon as the polish had soaked away, I washed my hands thoroughly, and moisturised with some coconut oil which put some of the flexibility back into my skin. I then tried to gently buff away some of the roughness, caused by damage, on the surface of my nails which made them feel a little less irritating.
After I'd finished, Dora started removing her old manicure in the kitchen. Half an hour later, I went in to make a cup of tea, and found her struggling with dripped acetone all over the counter, sink and floor. "Did yours look like this?" she asked as she showed me her delicate, half soaked off nails. "It's taking ages!" It did take ages, to be honest. Over a glass of wine we took a moment to mourn the loss of our colourful talons, and I tried to get used to the new motor-functions of my shortened fingers. When texting, I felt like a young Bambi trying to walk on ice.
My friends and I often revisit the 'what if we were confronted with a zombie apocalypse situation right now?' conversation. It normally gets concluded that I would be one of the first to be eaten, due to my reliance on wearing glasses (and propensity to lose them) and general slow pace when running away from things. I try to argue that I have useful skills, that I could barter for their protection. For example, once safely secured in a base or stronghold, I could make and repair clothes, cook, grow crops etc, however this usually gets overruled with the "we need to keep moving" argument and "George, you really should get laser eye surgery, just in case".
The current quarantine is obviously not at all the same as a zombie apocalypse! However, since the manicure-removal ordeal, it has prompted me to reflect upon what practices in my life are 'needs', and what is expendable. Which luxuries become regular maintenance? And which of these practices, or habits, would be a problem in an emergency?
I've always enjoyed thinking about how fashion exists within an interesting space between 'want' and 'need'. In a over-simplified sense, since its beginnings, clothing has allowed humans to weather inhospitable environments, providing protection and utility. Then additionally, such clothing takes on symbolic meaning, and gets translated into 'fashion', a tool for the formation of our complex identities. In isolation, my wardrobe has exclusively become comfort oriented, and relatively unisex (jogging bottoms, t-shirts and woolly jumpers etc). My most expensive and prized garments have become somewhat of a redundant frivolity. What I value in this current environment is 'use' rather than 'aesthetics'.
This time will allow my nails to recover from the trauma, and I'll come back to revisit these thoughts again as the weeks in quarantine surpass.
It usually starts with us both simultaneously deciding that we are now unhappy with the current state of our nails, and it's about time that we deserve a treat! When the planets align (i.e. we have £25 and a free couple of hours), we walk to 'Deptford Nails' together, excitedly deliberating the new colour we are going to choose. This colour choice is most important! It will dictate our '#mood' for the next month or so. Somehow, the question 'what type of person do we want to be?' gets simplified into this colour choice decision; bright, 'natural', classic, glittery etc.
When we arrive we say hello to the ladies that work there, and they ask what type of service we want. We always choose 'soak off then SNS', or 'SNS refill' if we're on a budget. We receive a cup of instant coffee with a sugar, and the colour discussion continues as we get handed the plastic display stand with the full range. Any colour we had previously planned, usually gets instantly forgotten as we spot something more exciting from the display. We then get rushed to make a final decision (because our indecisiveness gets frustrating to watch) and we have to commit, risking a colour we may regret later.
There's normally something completely unrelated, like the snooker or 'The Kardashians' to watch on the TV, whilst we sit with our hands in front of us on the table. The lady then takes each finger, and files off the old polish with a tool that looks like it belongs in a dentist's surgery. We then get told to go to the sink, and wash off the dusty nail filings with water. We sit back down, and with speed and precision, she re-coats each nail with polish and the SNS dipping powder. We place our hands under a warm air dryer, and the process gets repeated. A final buff to smooth any roughness, and a glossy clear top coat gets applied. Cuticle oil and a lanolin hand cream to finish. My coffee often goes cold, but I drink it anyway out of politeness.
It's cash only (and we always forget) so we quickly nip to the pound shop next door where there is a cash machine, then return to pay.
On our walk home we talk about how great we now look, how much better this makes us feel, and then how much we appreciate living together and each other.
The last time we did this was the beginning of February, and we were due another session just as the quarantine set in. As a non-essential business, Deptford Nails had to close until further notice. Our nails became very long, and I had to adapt my hand movents to accomodate for this. I'd gotten used to holding and using things in slightly different ways (pens, knitting needles, my phone, laptop keyboard etc). The extra length was sometimes useful and sometimes inconvenient, but the long nails had become my normal, I suppose, and part of me enjoyed the hyper-feminine, dainty ridiculousness of it all. You could see about a half a centimetre of my natural nail growing from the bottom and people started to comment on their extreme length. "Oh my god, how do you do things?", "George, I can't take you seriously with those nails!". Dora didn't like the way hers were growing out, as a few of her nails had started growing in a bit of a curved shape. She said "look, it looks like a birds beak", and I overheard her friend saying "Dora, they look butters!"
About a week ago, the polish began to chip. I had been desperately trying to repress the compulsion to pick off the hard polish, as I knew that if I did so, my nails underneath would be damaged beyond repair. You hear horror stories of how most of the nail comes off with the polish as you pick it, and when people describe their nails as 'paper thin' it always makes me feel a little bit sick. I decided I needed to remove it properly, then ordered some acetone from 'Amazon'. It said it would take three days to arrive, so in the meantime I decided to try and cut them down to a more manageable length and ignore the temptation to nibble the edges. My tiny nail scissors could barely cope with the thickness of the SNS coating. I hacked away, and eventually got them down to a more manageable length by brute force (not recommended). As I filed the sharp edges, the change admittedly, felt much better, but I did miss the way they used to look. This aggressive cutting just made the polish chip off more, making the temptation to pick almost unbearable.
The acetone arrived today, and so I immediately went to soaking the remaining polish off as the internet recommended. I made a kind of spa-bain-marie (large bowl with boiling water from the kettle, smaller bowl placed inside with the acetone, tea-towel over the top) and placed my hands in the warm liquid. After a few minutes I could start rubbing the polish off revealing nails that hadn't been exposed to the air for months. They felt fragile, and rough. The acetone also sucked all the moisture out of my skin, and so every hand movement felt restricted. As soon as the polish had soaked away, I washed my hands thoroughly, and moisturised with some coconut oil which put some of the flexibility back into my skin. I then tried to gently buff away some of the roughness, caused by damage, on the surface of my nails which made them feel a little less irritating.
After I'd finished, Dora started removing her old manicure in the kitchen. Half an hour later, I went in to make a cup of tea, and found her struggling with dripped acetone all over the counter, sink and floor. "Did yours look like this?" she asked as she showed me her delicate, half soaked off nails. "It's taking ages!" It did take ages, to be honest. Over a glass of wine we took a moment to mourn the loss of our colourful talons, and I tried to get used to the new motor-functions of my shortened fingers. When texting, I felt like a young Bambi trying to walk on ice.
George
Sad times. So much effort to get them off 😂
They feel loads better though
Bee
Oh myyyyy
You did it!!!!
Industrial chemicals
Hahhhahahha
Omgggg
I have to learn how to text again
Because otherwise...
In cones oyy lujr thus and in in will kniw hear in datubg
Hear yge fuck
(Translation: It comes out like this and no one will know what I'm saying, what the fuck?)
Silly fingers
Omggg hahahahahaha
This is hilarious
It's like I have someone else's hands
You no longer have spike hands
But have been left with wobbly wobbly hot dog hands
My friends and I often revisit the 'what if we were confronted with a zombie apocalypse situation right now?' conversation. It normally gets concluded that I would be one of the first to be eaten, due to my reliance on wearing glasses (and propensity to lose them) and general slow pace when running away from things. I try to argue that I have useful skills, that I could barter for their protection. For example, once safely secured in a base or stronghold, I could make and repair clothes, cook, grow crops etc, however this usually gets overruled with the "we need to keep moving" argument and "George, you really should get laser eye surgery, just in case".
The current quarantine is obviously not at all the same as a zombie apocalypse! However, since the manicure-removal ordeal, it has prompted me to reflect upon what practices in my life are 'needs', and what is expendable. Which luxuries become regular maintenance? And which of these practices, or habits, would be a problem in an emergency?
I've always enjoyed thinking about how fashion exists within an interesting space between 'want' and 'need'. In a over-simplified sense, since its beginnings, clothing has allowed humans to weather inhospitable environments, providing protection and utility. Then additionally, such clothing takes on symbolic meaning, and gets translated into 'fashion', a tool for the formation of our complex identities. In isolation, my wardrobe has exclusively become comfort oriented, and relatively unisex (jogging bottoms, t-shirts and woolly jumpers etc). My most expensive and prized garments have become somewhat of a redundant frivolity. What I value in this current environment is 'use' rather than 'aesthetics'.
This time will allow my nails to recover from the trauma, and I'll come back to revisit these thoughts again as the weeks in quarantine surpass.
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