Nail Polish, Its More than Colors, It’s a Way of Life

Gretchen - Acushnet, Massachusetts
Entered on February 5, 2009
Age Group: Under 18
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I, Gretchen, believe in nail polish. Covering up all ten nails each week with a different shade, a different color, I put up a shield, a mask, a barrier. Not one single person knows ME, maybe bits and pieces, when the nail polish chips away, but no one has seen it all. They can talk, they can judge and they can assume, but they don’t know.

“Your own mother doesn’t know you?”

No, not everything. She doesn’t know what I did last Friday night, and its in my best interest it stays that way. I just glide on that glossy red, not forgetting the clear non-chip coat for extra shine, and Momma H will remain clueless to my late Friday night shenanigans. Simple as that.

“Your best friend doesn’t know you?”

No not everything. She doesn’t know about my secret crush on her twenty-something year old brother. She doesn’t know that I secretly hate her mom’s praised lasagna, or that I despise sleepovers at her house because her room is a pigsty. I just glide on that dainty pink, don’t forget the non-chip coat for extra protection, and Brina Lee Lemrise will remain clueless to my not so nice opinions. Simple as that.

“Your own sister doesn’t know you?”

No, not everything. She doesn’t know that I use her expensive salon shampoo every single night.She never found out about that one time I wore her favorite polo and spilt grape juice on it and said “Oh yeah, it must of gotten lost in the shuffle of clothes or something; it will probably turn up eventually.” I just glide on that mellow yellow, don’t forget the non-chip coat for extra durability, and Kirsten Hanczaryk will remain clueless to my costly habits. Simple as that.

No one knows I keep these truths to myself, and that’s the beauty I see in it. Nail polish, is my own safe haven. If I told my mom about my late Friday nights, I would be dead. If I told my best friend about her ridiculously gorgeous brother, I think she’d disown me. If Mrs. L found about my hatred for her Italian cuisine, I’d probably never be allowed under her hospitable roof again. If my sister knew about her polo, the house would be war zone.

A wise young woman keeps all the secrets in the palm of her hand. When she needs to speak up, she will. Until then, she glides on that nail polish, doesn’t dare forget the top coat and smiles as if the world is her salon. Simple as that.