From adolescence to adulthood, I’ve been sporting artificial nails on my hands. Claws had become a warm embrace to my feminine side, forcing me to tweak each physical action into dainty gestures. From a full spectrum of colors, my choices reflected moods, trends, and even subconscious emotions. There was a feeling of refinement that came from molded plastic on my fingertips, a sense of elegance that was attached to my self-image. Years have passed and I’ve spent countless hours at salons, even taking the initiative to become familiar with learning how to say ‘beautiful,’ ‘cute, and ‘pink’ in Vietnamese. As a sincere believer in sharing knowledge, ‘beautiful’ is translated to ‘đẹp’ which is pronounced (deh-ep). In recent months, time felt slower during self-care. Irritation, annoyance, and tedium had become the nature of my routine. A romantic date molding pottery on a wheel followed with prologued cleaning underneath almond-shaped nails in the shade ‘bubble bath.’ While relishing in a Mysore masala dosa with my dear father, which is typically eaten with hands, I felt a reluctance to tarnish a peachy shade of mauve with the turmeric powder. Cleaning, hanging up a painting, typing – it had all become a nuisance.

     My love of aesthetics had slowly begun to fade. A lovely Sunday prompted me to fantasize about clenching a fist, deep cleaning the corners of the restroom, and finger-painting – all of what I had restricted myself from. I possessed an inert desire to dig my fingers into fertile soil and plant an array of herbs and vegetables without inhibitions. An hour later, I got a shellac manicure with talons that didn’t surpass the pads of my swirly fingerprint. The initial reaction to my newfound style was reminiscent of something primitive, prefacing memories of my childhood. Snapshots of juvenile hands spread through my mind -- kneading dough to make molasses cookies with my grandmother, threading needles for my mother’s sewing project for my dance recital dress, grasping clumps of coconut oil from a jar and watching it diffuse while melting. An earthy smile laid permanent that pained my jaw. As weeks passed, I adjusted to the acumen of my heightened sensations that were hidden beneath a barrier of acrylic.

    After meditating on what appeared to be a minor change in a woman’s life, it opened a greater question. What beauty standards have idealized femininity? When cosmetic enhancement interferes with the freedoms of an organic approach, do we retreat? Through metamorphosis of the perception of who I am, I came to an understanding of the femininity that lies in my authentic self. I wouldn’t say I’m prepared to abandon my precise tweezers, salted caramel lip-gloss, or lava-like flat iron. But I’m in the direction of something more natural.

Something unrefined, in a glorified way.