She wears pink nail polish, the kind that you can buy at those ubiquitous chain supermarket for a price about $5.00 each bottle, and perhaps $3.00 on sale.
She’s the type of girl who would turn on her lamp at 3am in the morning, and squander loneliness by staring at her own hands and critique on each finger’s imperfection. Her right hand’s middle finger is crooked on the upper half, and the thumbs are slightly disproportionately larger than all her other nails, and oh her pinkies are distastefully short. But her point finger on the left hand is alright, she thought.
Just alright.
She would open that bottle of pink nail polish she just bought today at that store next to her school, a shade slightly darker than the one she’s wearing, and put it on.
But first, she’d have to erase the colors on her nails with nail polish remover, one at a time, pressing it hard onto her colorful nails and erase with force. And the liquid would seep into her delicate skin, but oh well it’s a process that is necessary and important, so she would endure the pain when the nail polish remover touches upon that paper cut she has on the side of her middle finger on her right hand. And then she would carefully open the bottle of pink nail polish, and carefully apply that color onto her somewhat imperfectly crooked fingers, and with all the patience in this world, she would do such coloring by demanding absolute precision and decisiveness.
Yet, she is human, and beyond that, a young girl, so hesitation becomes an inevitable occasional mistake. Then she would erase that imperfection with the same burning liquid, and color once again, filling the adorable pinkness into her tiny finger nails.
She’s the type of girl who would spend three hours on her nails at 3am in the morning, and erase that color once sun comes up and she feels ashamed for her effort. For “trying too hard” as people out there put it.
She’s the type of girl who is so insecure that she has to play cool to go along the crowd, and who can never believe that she is beautiful.
Sometimes I wish I could be there, to hug that girl and tell her that her right-hand middle finger is crookedly beautiful, that her slightly disproportional larger thumbs make her hands look better, and that she is beautiful. Tell her that it’s okay to try hard, that someone would love her.
Truly, someone will love her.
She’s the type of girl who would turn on her lamp at 3am in the morning, and squander loneliness by staring at her own hands and critique on each finger’s imperfection. Her right hand’s middle finger is crooked on the upper half, and the thumbs are slightly disproportionately larger than all her other nails, and oh her pinkies are distastefully short. But her point finger on the left hand is alright, she thought.
Just alright.
She would open that bottle of pink nail polish she just bought today at that store next to her school, a shade slightly darker than the one she’s wearing, and put it on.
But first, she’d have to erase the colors on her nails with nail polish remover, one at a time, pressing it hard onto her colorful nails and erase with force. And the liquid would seep into her delicate skin, but oh well it’s a process that is necessary and important, so she would endure the pain when the nail polish remover touches upon that paper cut she has on the side of her middle finger on her right hand. And then she would carefully open the bottle of pink nail polish, and carefully apply that color onto her somewhat imperfectly crooked fingers, and with all the patience in this world, she would do such coloring by demanding absolute precision and decisiveness.
Yet, she is human, and beyond that, a young girl, so hesitation becomes an inevitable occasional mistake. Then she would erase that imperfection with the same burning liquid, and color once again, filling the adorable pinkness into her tiny finger nails.
She’s the type of girl who would spend three hours on her nails at 3am in the morning, and erase that color once sun comes up and she feels ashamed for her effort. For “trying too hard” as people out there put it.
She’s the type of girl who is so insecure that she has to play cool to go along the crowd, and who can never believe that she is beautiful.
Sometimes I wish I could be there, to hug that girl and tell her that her right-hand middle finger is crookedly beautiful, that her slightly disproportional larger thumbs make her hands look better, and that she is beautiful. Tell her that it’s okay to try hard, that someone would love her.
Truly, someone will love her.
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