Polished Nails, Predictable Peace
Polished Nails, Predictable Peace
BY SARAH DONEGHY
The steps are always the same.
I walk in. The salon is large, clean, and smells faintly of acetone. There are two big shelves of polish up front, one on either side. It would be overwhelming if I didn’t know where to go and what to get. It’s always one of two colors: Essie 345, a deep red, or Essie 049, a light pink. One week red, one week pink. Dark, light, dark, light. It’s the pattern I love.
I am autistic. I love a routine. A ritual. Something I can count on happening exactly as it happens. It gives me comfort and allows me to relax. I don’t have to worry about what comes next because I know. That’s why I watch the same TV show over and over again. It’s why I’ll listen to the same song on repeat.
Life is not so foreseeable. However, once a week for an hour, I am able to have the ease and solace that comes from a predictable pattern when I get my nails done.
“Sit here,” the manager gestures.
I take off my coat, scarf, and bag, placing them in a square container, and sit in the chair. The manicurist holds my hand and looks at my nails. Our skin is the same light tan. The employees are women of all ages – thin with dark hair like mine, theirs straight while mine is curly. They wear a uniform of black clothes and brown aprons with lots of pockets. I think of how freeing it must be to never have to worry about what to wear.
“File or cut?” she says.
“File please. Thin on the sides and round on the top,” I demonstrate. I’ve been doing this shape for a year. My nails become smooth and circular. If they break, they’re easy to file and I can follow the form.
I hear the click-clickity-click as she presses into the bottle of remover. Soaked cotton slides on my nails, turning my previous polish into streaks of red or pink like rain on a chalk painting.
The filing begins with the pinky finger. She shows me. Yes, I nod.
There is no small talk – something I am incapable of. There is only the pursuit of beautifying my nails.
Generic spa music plays on a loop. I know it by heart. The same melody, the same crescendo, the same reassurance I have of knowing what’s coming next. Around me, the women who work there are talking to each other in a language I can’t understand. I don’t need to. It is part of the beautiful background.
After filing, gloves filled with hot lotion are pushed onto my hands, much like maneuvering mittens onto a toddler about to play in the snow. A buffer is used to tear open the ends of the gloves.
The cutting of the cuticles begins. This is the big transformation. For a week, I will not be picking my cuticles, tearing the skin, and making them bleed. Picking is one of my more noticeable stims. When I pull my hair, rock, or chew the inside of my mouth, I am self-soothing, and most of the time I don’t realize I’m doing it. But when I pick my cuticles, I see people’s eyes watching – my differences being made all the more visible
The manicurist lets the skin build up on the snippers. Soon there will be no cuticles to pick. Only pretty, round beds pampered and prepped. The cast-away cuticle reveals a freshness underneath, like Cinderella’s rags dropping off instantly replaced with a sparkly gown.
The gloves are removed. The remaining lotion is rubbed into my hands. A hot, white, towel is taken out of what looks like a toaster oven and wipes the cream away. I feel wrapped up and taken care of. I feel the warmth on my inside. I relax even further.
“Pay now?” she says.
“Yes.”
I give her $20. She brings back five singles. I gesture for her to keep the change. She puts it in one of her apron pockets, sits, and wraps cotton around a cuticle stick, making a giant Q-tip.
Click-clickity-click goes the remover, and she prepares my nail surface. A base polish is speedily applied. Two coats of color are meticulously painted on, then finally the topcoat securing the shine.
“Beautiful,” I say.
She leads me to a chair. I place my hands under a dryer. A heat lamp flashes on, along with the humming and breeze of the fans. A quick rub is given to my shoulders, and then our interaction is done.
“Thank you,” we both say.
I turn the heat off as I don’t like the feeling of my hands being burned. I grab one of the timers they use when someone gets a massage. I love a countdown. I love numbers. I love knowing exact times. 20 minutes is where I set it. The dryers face the windows to the street, and I begin to count people. I make up games for myself. “If I count 300 people, I’ll win 8 million dollars.” There’s something so fun about needing to get to 300 people in 20 minutes. My mind wanders at times, and I lose count and start again. For some, this might be meditation. For me, it’s regulation. It is the pattern, the knowledge, and the predictability of numbers that brings me to a place of tranquility. 10 has to come after 9. 11 has to come after 10. My eyelids get heavy. I inhale deeply. I feel myself centered and at peace.
The time is up. I apply oil so as not to dent the fresh paint. With my shoulders dropped and breathing even, I am ready to go back into the world.
Throughout the week, every time I catch a glimpse of my nails, I am brought back to the calm. The routine. The ritual.
I never know what might transpire and how things will affect me. But for one hour, when I get a manicure, I know exactly what’s going to happen and how I will feel. And sometimes, that’s enough.
Bio: Sarah Doneghy is an actor, writer, and host of the show Mixed Messages with Sarah Doneghy on YouTube. To see more of her work please visit her site.
