I have both of those things, and as soon as I realized it I felt kind of weird about it.
The nails are the press on kind – Kiss French Tip Petite, if you must know. I just superglued them to my real nails, which sounds really dubious, right? Pieces of plastic shaped like nails are covering my real nails.
I don’t have a good reason. I could say it’s because my nails are trashed from improper removal of the shellac I got for our wedding, and that would be true. Of course, the improper removal was on me, because you gotta dissolve that attachment in a serious paint thinner type way and I went the mechanical-force-due-to-boredom way. I could also point out that I’m going to see Crockett’s family in a couple of days, but there’s no one in that family that would respect fake nails more than crappy real short nails.
Mostly they just make me feel pretty.
I have a new wedding ring, and I type all day. I look at my hands, and I like how they look with uniform, shiny, white tipped nails. That’s on me just as much as ruining my natural nails.
My hair is in a shaggy shag shagalious thing, now. I’ve been growing it out for quite some time, and my mom took a pic yesterday during our family thanksgiving. It was long, and voluminous, but not interesting. I wanted more of this, and today I saw my stylist in my last chance before she goes on maternity leave and I got it. I didn’t NEED a haircut, but I paid her a well deserved $87 (including tip) anyway, basically just to make me feel prettier.
I feel guilty and angry and angry about feeling guilty and guilty about feeling angry about both of these things.
I very much want to not succumb to the trappings of the patriarchal definition of beauty. I also don’t want to deny myself something I enjoy because I have doubts about its origin. My desire for pretty nails and hair likely has its roots in man-catchin’, right? But since I’ve internalized that ideal to an extent that I now want it for myself, what’s the right thing to do? I’m not using it for man catching. Crockett finds my fingernail painting and faking and shellacing …. well, I don’t think he finds it much of anything. He probably would think of it as a hobby, if he was forced to classify the piles of tiny bottles and glues. The state of my nails isn’t important to him, for sure.
He probably does care about my hair, but he’s so carefully complimentary that I’m not entirely sure what hair he likes more than other hair. (He’s vocally anti-bang, but I think mostly the beauty that is bangs are appreciated by women.) So technically my hair isn’t for him any more than my nails.
The point is, when you’re this aware of what your choices mean, there are only a few ways to go.
- Do what I want, beauty wise, and ignore the kyriarchical implications.
- Do what I want, beauty wise, but be fully aware of the roots of those rituals that exist in sexism and oppression.
- Stop any kind of beauty routine, because fuck male idiots for thinking that occasionally shaving less than a square foot of face is the equivalent of shaving six+ square feet of skin, moisturizing, blow drying, and making up. Or worse, those that think that women should work harder on their appearance because beauty is what they’re good for.
- Maintain the bare minimum level of grooming expected by a woman in 2016 America and seethe every day about not getting to wear fake nails OR let my armpit hair grow loud and proud.
Dunno, guys. I guess I’ve settled into #2 for the mo? But not cozily. I like to feel pretty, I know pretty is primarily a construct meant to keep women secondary, and I can’t resolve the two.
Whatever. It’s Monday! The 21! Eight days left of every day posting, guys. Who knows what gems will surface.