A New Coat of Paint

A photographer friend and I used to "creatively challenge" each other by picking a phrase (a song lyric, whatever) and then creating our interpretation of it, he through photography and I through the written word. Here's a piece I suspect I'll never submit anywhere...

New coat of paint
My mother was the stereotypical corner shop hairdresser. Some of my fondest and most formative memories are a result of spending sunny, school-free days in the shop. I heard my first cuss word there and learned that a diaphragm is not a drawing that architects follow. I’d sit in the silver padded chair and pump myself up to the moon and spin until I felt nauseas. I’d watch as my mother’s lacquered fingernails made quick work of the curlers in the hair of her mouthy, platinum-haired patrons.

“Appearance is everything,” she often reminded me. “How we decorate ourselves on the outside is a direct reflection of who we are on the inside.”

My favorite thing was to watch her give manicures. I loved how she would file and shape the nails into perfectly rounded tips. I loved to watch her massage the oil into the cuticles. I loved to watch her buff the nails into a clean shine. But mostly I loved when she and the customer would let me pick out the nail color for the finishing touches.

The first time I approached the wall of color, I felt overwhelmed. There were so many colors of polish, stacked neatly on four thin plastic shelves, neatly arranged from the lightest hue to the most shockingly vibrant. Certainly even Mr. Crayola himself would bow in submission to this palate of polish.

My eyes bounced among the options trying to pick that perfect color.

“Hurry up, sweetie,” my mother said hurriedly as she fanned the woman’s nail bed helping the clear, basecoat of polish to dry.

I chose a juicy red. It was the color of my tricycle and felt just as fast. I imagined how it would glitter on the woman’s fingers, how it would simmer along with the embers of her cigarette that she would balance between the nails of her thumb and forefinger.

I smiled proudly as I handed my prize choice to my mother.

She took one look at my stretched out hand and pushed it away as though it turned her stomach. She scrunched up her face and squeezed her eyes shut, perhaps trying to block the sight from her mind. “Not that color. Only tramps wear bright red polish. Pick another color,” she said.

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My mother left an imprint on me far beyond that shop on the corner. Not only had I inherited my mother’s broad hips and brooding demeanor, but also her preference for passive nail polish.

They always had such sweet names. I wore Pleasantly Peachy on my first real date with a boy.

Pretty in Pink the first time we made love.

Lovely in Lavender the night he proposed.

Purely Pearly on my wedding day.

Sweetheart Pink on our last wedding anniversary.

But tonight I feel strangely empowered as I apply this new coat of paint, slowly stroking with the brush one last time, just to get it right. I searched for just the right shade for tonight, perusing up and down the aisle at the store, looking for that perfect hue with an equally perfect name.

Finished, I stretch my arm out in front of me to admire my handiwork. Satisfied, I plop the polish bottle into my purse, label up: Fiery Vixen Red.

I smile as I write my husband the goodbye note informing him that I want a divorce. Fiery Vixen Red.

I smile as I back out of our driveway and head toward the hotel. Fiery Vixen Red.

I smile as I pick up the extra key that was left at the front desk for me. Fiery Vixen Red.

I smile as my, oh so sexy and oh so married co-worker greets me at the door and throws me onto the bed. Fiery Vixen Red.

I smile as I drag my nails across his back as he presses over and over into me. Fiery Vixen Red.

I smile as I catch a glimpse of my freshly painted nails and as I hear my mother’s words echo in my mind, “Only tramps wear bright red polish.”

I smile as I think to myself, “Yes mother. Yes we do.”