Nails as extensions.
Once, Adesuwa said to me ‘your style really hasn’t changed since you’ve been in New York’. I stared down at my grey brushed Clarks, smoothed down my green and white XL pinstripe cotton shirt and then scanned all the way up my to consider my hairstyle - never relaxed, barely straightened, braids that last 10 days at most, usually in the slickest bun known to man, sometimes a middle part + on occasion a few curls form a thin fringe to shield my 8-finger forehead from the elements.
Adesuwa states the seemingly obvious which no-one else pays attention to and says it out loud, and she is usually extremely correct : my style is pretty steady by-and-large. I like playing with volumes, adding one element that jars or is unexpected and introducing textures in muted colours. Functionality is important, but never ever at the expense of beauty, of course. I sway more minimalist than maximalist. I like to dress in a way that pays respect to both the timeliness of fashion and timelessness of style.
Nails, though. Nails are the one canvas of my body where there is little consistency. I don’t want to adhere to the criteria for my wardrobe. They are my sculptures that I’ll create a concept for whilst knowing the invisible weaknesses embedded in their structural make-up will destroy the forethought in approximately 3 weeks time. Sometimes I anticipate their need for a break, other times I’ll let the Shellac peel and nails break to jumpstart action.
My hands are the one part of my body which I take pride in — usually other people do too - I once had a partner who actively spoke of my nails being ‘the strongest, sexiest manifestation of who you are inside and out.’ I mainly liked that I had a partner who paid attention to themself, myself and the relation between us.
There is a picture of a Black woman’s hands - full set, extra long, dripping in gold jewellery: poised, self-expressive and assured. This picture opens and closes a journey of approaches, questions, narratives and numbers in a Keynote deck. I wonder about the rest of this woman for the whole week. Then I wonder if anyone else who reads this deck wonders about the rest of her. The Zoom ends and she’s still on my mind.
There are endless setbacks and restrictions placed on Black women whenever we choose to confidently illustrate ourselves. I think about her colour choices, how she came up with the concept, how she uses her hands in her day-to-day life: does she mould, type, knead, place?
I, for a fact, know she sat down in a salon for at least 4 hours dedicated to this formation of herself. I, for a fact, know multiple salons on multiple blocks that could achieve these looks in slightly different ways - some techs focus on texture, others on intricacy, line-work, length-extensions, health. I, for a fact, know where I can turn for nameplate jewellery which will adorn my fingers - not in the Carrie Bradshaw way.
When I get my nails done in Greenpoint my nail tech is a Chinese woman with a slight spasm that happens every couple of minutes. I see her Anglicised name tag at the start of our time together and then by the end I tip her on Venmo and am reminded of her other Chinese name. I always sit down. I take off my rings. She handles my hands in a thoughtful manner, always. We are involved in a concept-creation dance together via language, pictures on Instagram and trial-and-error : sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t but we’re both committed to our version of excellence, together. There’s a commercial exchange, and an exchange of creativity and care.
I remember being upstate on a project exploring the outdoors in 2019. A client stops me mid-climb and takes a picture on his iPhone of my then stiletto-shaped, long, pink, blue and white nails and gold rings which contrasted against the grey rock. These moments are pointed in my memory, even when they seem rudimentary, because a painted nail is never just a painted nail. I instinctively knew why he took the picture: I mean, I wrote about the whiteness and the monolith of the outdoors in my write-up. Modest manicures and pastel colours signal white, middle-class, heteronormative beauty. On the other hand, nail art with shimmering details, bold colours, and texture is associated with poor racialised women. I was glad he recognised the tension. I was not glad he took the picture before both of my feet were on the ground, I could step out of my harness and we could talk. Oh, and I never did get the picture to use myself, but I imagine it was fly as fuck: I wish I could show you.