What’s the one beauty product you couldn’t live without, even if you were stranded on a desert island? BB cream? Lash extensions? Lip balm? For me – no contest – it’s nail polish. I can’t get enough of the stuff. I’d drink it if it weren’t toxic.
When I was a teenager, the lady who lived next-door shared my love of nail polish. She stored hers in the little egg holders on the inside of her refrigerator door because, she explained, the cold temperature helped prolong the shelf life of the polish. By the time I was grown and had a place of my own, refrigerator doors no longer came equipped with egg holders, so I bought a Lucite organizer for my nail polish and have kept it refrigerated ever since.
My fascination with nail polish goes way beyond painting it on my fingers and toes. When I’m on the subway, in line at the store, or at a social event, I always notice the nail polish other women are wearing. At a recent family gathering, the lady in red had a clean and classic French manicure, and the child of the ‘60’s painted her nails midnight blue to match her cocktail dress. My basic black ensemble needed a pop of color so I went with a vivid fuchsia.
In a January 2016 blog post, entitled “Man Buns” I went on a rant about the onslaught of guys wearing their hair up in little ballet dancer buns and hypothesized about what might come next that could be even more cringeworthy. Jokingly, I suggested men wearing nail polish. But this is no joke. And as alarming as it may be, it has come to pass.
A few days ago, a millennial wearing the grad student uniform: baseball cap, graphic tee, khaki shorts, and sneakers stepped onto the train. After he sat down next to me, he reached into his messenger bag for a book. That’s when I noticed his finger nails were neatly painted a garnet red metallic that I’m pretty sure was OPI’s “I’m Not Really A Waitress.” I was aghast.
I’ll give them their messenger bags. And their ridiculous man buns. But my beloved nail polish? I have no words…