TAUPE

My nails are a deep blue, shimmering with purple undertones. I chose this color this morning to match the theme of my wedding. I tasked myself to find a perfect match for my colors to help ease the anxiety of my first manicure. I have painted my nails before, but I have never sat in a chair and received a manicure. I have taken care of my nails before, but I have never given up control and let someone else take care of me. I am grateful to my friends for coming with me, because I don’t know if I could have done it alone.

I am now pulling the veil from the multitude of hair pins in my heavily hair-sprayed, but now limp, hair in the bathroom. A herculean task, I rest assured that the wedding dress on the back of the chair will be hung up when I emerge victorious from the bathroom. This tightly woven constellation of bobby pins cemented in my hair is the last task of my day. I know that when these hair pins are out, I can find my way to our room, curl up in the bed with my new husband, and fall asleep to the memories of the day and the shape of his body. When he asked if he could help, I delegated to him care of the dress. He promised it would be hung up safely in the closet, safe from the dog hair and debris, just like I asked.

When I finally stumble out of the bathroom, half of my natural eyelashes still on, the other half lost to the glue applied that morning, I find the dress still on the chair, attracting the attention of the dogs who sniff curiously at this aberration. It rests, untouched, on the chair where I stepped out of it and into my new home. My wedding dress remains slumped on the chair where I took it off after being carried across the threshold, a promise pinky-sworn in the doorway, my shimmering blue manicure interwoven with his own manicured hand.

My nails are gold. There are so many shades of gold to choose from. Iridescent, translucent, shimmering, glittering; the brilliance of light refracting on millions of tiny surfaces to create a magnificence of choice. And I find one to match my shoes. I find joy in being able to return the favor of a pre-wedding manicure and I find comfort in the companionship of my fellow bridesmaids. We sit comfortably with each other as we honor the bride-to-be with our undivided attention and affection, our phones silenced against the constant pinging for our attention.

At the wedding, I walked down the aisle shoulder to shoulder with the best man, my equivalent groomsman. The natural pole of our roles butts with the opposite magnetic pole of jealousy to create an almost imperceptible gap between us. During dinner, I gave my speech earnestly, an act of faithful love against the act of disobedience of stealing time from my husband to write my words. On the dancefloor, I sway and bop along to the music as my eyes dance over the crowd searching for my husband coming back from his cigarette.

In the pictures, I am smiling and laughing. I am grateful that the camera cannot see through the extra layers of concealer that I’ve used to hide the sunken depths of my eyes. I am grateful that the camera cannot see the tension in my body, measuring my every move against the ruler of his judgement. I am grateful that the camera cannot see how my gold nails clasp at the bouquet in my hands, grasping to hold onto this role I was chosen for, clawing for a chance to prove myself.

My nails are baby Barbie pink as I sit in the audience at my friend’s community concert performance Sunday evening. My manicured hands clap for her and then help her carry her things to her car as we finish enjoying our last few hours together before I fly back home. We are wrapping up our girls-night-turned-weekend in my hometown. It’s been a year and a half since I’ve been married and almost as long since I last saw my friends. It was my husband’s first weekend without me.

While I’d been basking in the nostalgia that is a sleepover with my friends, a once semi-annual tradition, he had been drinking. He misplaced his phone early in the weekend, so the angry and accusatory calls come from an unknown number originating from his computer. I wish that, like this unknown number, the person on the other line was unknown. But unfortunately, I know this man. I know these calls. I know these accusations. My friend and her husband look curiously at me when they stumble out at 2am for water to find me awake on the couch, waiting for the next phone call of yelling and name-calling. How can I explain that there is no other choice but to pick up?

With only a day left of my trip and him sleeping the night off, my friend and I decided to treat ourselves to a manicure before her afternoon concert. We head down to midtown to a spot she recommends and sign in at the front desk. As we start to select our manicure choices, she smells all the lotions and peruses the colors, searching for just the right color to suit her mood. She tailors her experience just for her and savors the luxury. I glance anxiously at the fragrances, unsure of what I like, wary of the scents. The wall of colors appears to lean in on me, full of wrong choices laced with ulterior meaning. Which color is worth the cost? Which color can convince him that this trip is for me and not against him? Which color is incontrovertible? In the end I chose a baby Barbie pink. Maybe we will call this color Apology Pink.

My nails are matte Barbie pink with an accent gold ring finger. I’ve taken my inspiration from a nail set I saw several months ago but never had the confidence or funds to pursue. With just a few days until my induction date, it seems like the right time to get my nails done. Unfortunately my lack of confidence finds me flipping endlessly through their nail samples until a look from the stylist tells me my time is up, whether I’ve found the right color or not. It takes even more confidence to ask for the different finishes and the accent, so my confidence has been exhausted by the time he cuts my cuticles and draws blood. I feel like I’ve already taken up so much space, how can I possibly protect myself against one more thing?

Next to me in the salon chair, sharing my pre-labor manicure, is my husband’s new partner, the woman who will maintain my husband’s sexual needs once the baby is here. We’ve been together for a few months, since my husband insisted that the baby means the end of our sexual freedom and that my 6-week post-natal hiatus means he needs a new supply. It was tricky in the beginning, hiding the fact that I was pregnant. There was only so much careful distance and awkward placement that one could have before it became obvious that I was hiding a little bump. As that bump has grown, so has the distance between us. I am finding myself further from them as they push closer together. This little act of getting our nails done together is our acknowledgement that we are bonded in some way. This matte pink manicure was not the look I was hoping for, but that’s ok, because this wasn’t the backdrop I was hoping for.

Giving birth conjures images of lovers’ hands clasped in shared strength as they make the slippery, squalling transition into parenthood. But my Barbie-pink hand grasps the railing of the hospital bed as my husband announces the birth of our baby girl. My nails may not be perfect, but she is. We are visited in the hospital by another set of manicured nails. We bring our baby home to another set of manicured nails. We name our baby with the help of another set of manicured nails. My husband disappears onto the back porch with his nicotine and his pot and another set of manicured nails. My matte pink manicure chips away alone as I navigate breastfeeding, motherhood, and what it means to be a wife.

My nails are taupe, a natural choice from among the shelves of color. I’m sitting in the nail salon to distract myself from the anxiety of dropping my daughter off with her dad for the day. The people are kind, and the place is clean. I try to relax into the chair and find the courage to explore the options on the chair’s remote. I take a deep breath of the chemical scents and fumble clumsily with the chair controls and my own memories.

It’s been several months since I left my husband, making the three-hour drive to my parent’s house. With a bag of laundry, a snack for my toddler and a bouncy seat for my newborn in the car, the three of us made our getaway. Memories of the previous night drifted hazily through my head through the fog of terror as I went as fast and as far as I could before the baby woke up and demanded to be fed. His disappearance, his sudden reappearance, his presence, his absence, his vitriol, his voice. Over and over, I heard him say, “You’re a bad person. You have a bad soul.” It played like a symphony in my head, the chorus hitting a crescendo as the phone rang.

An unknown number. I can guess. One call. Two calls. Four. Twelve. A text: Pick up. A text: I will call the police. A text: I’m serious. When I went back later to look, I had previously received a message from this number. He had sent me the link and code to a new Tinder account two months prior. Now several texts and a dozen missed calls come up for this number. The police visited my parents’ home, conducting a well visit. His friends called begging forgiveness on his behalf. His own impassioned speeches enumerating how he’d changed and his regret.

I would continue to grapple with the meaning of his words for two weeks. Phone calls to therapists, friends, and lawyers. A legal separation. It would take two weeks for me to gain the courage to go back home. Another few months would pass before I would find myself here, sitting in this chair, finding the courage to explore the massage settings on my chair, waiting to get my nails painted taupe. Of all the colors on the wall, my favorite nail color is taupe.