My babysitter Noreen wore long acrylics in frosted pink that, to my five-year-old self, were the epitome of glam. I loved to watch her hands as she fried a grilled cheese, finger-combed watermelon-scented mousse through her fringe, or twisted the phone cord as she chatted to her boyfriend Gene. Even when one broke and she had to hold it in place with a bandaid, I swooned at the impossibly adult je ne sais quoi of being a woman with nails to boot, imitating her by sticking strawberries on the ends of my fingers or forming my own with red putty.
Meanwhile, my mother and her friends were clean girls before there was a name for the aesthetic. As artists in the male-dominated 1980s, they were wearing loosely fitting suiting by Comme des Garçons and cutting their nails to the quick, partially for practicality (they were wielding paintbrushes and cameras, sculpting and performing) and also to prove that their femininity didn't prevent them from playing in the big leagues – a stigma that culturally we've at least pretended to abandon. But, as always, it takes work to look effortless – my mother had her nails buffed and painted with a clear lacquer every other week, a process I
