British Racing Green was actually the thing I most had in mind when it sunk in that I was serious about painting my nails. A paean to the dreams of my late childhood and early adolescence, it is the color of the cars that my father -- and therefore, I -- loved the most: those legendary (and legendarily finicky, pain-in-the-ass, labour-of-love) tiny British two seater convertible coupes, MGs, Austin-Healeys, and, of course, Triumphs. At this point in my life, I'll never own one (at least short of becoming Jay Leno-rich), but to this day these cars and their streaks of countryside copse verde growl dustily through the backroads of my dreams. Five little crescents of BRG on my left hand seem to honor some small but critical voice in myself in ways I never expected when my daughter asked me if she could do my nails.
It was her idea, but something in me perked up when she asked, the Saturday night of the local Pride Weekend last June. "Why not?" I said and suggested an abbreviated rainbow on my left hand (five fingers couldn't hold the whole of ROY G BIV). When she asked, looking quizzical, why just my left, I wasn't yet sure, but it felt important. In any case, I figured, come Monday night, I'd acetone it all off in anticipation of returning to work.
But I quickly realized that I liked it. And others seemed to share that opinion, which felt good. I ended up wearing the rainbow for nearly two weeks, during which time I had begun to collect a baseline of nailcare paraphernalia such that I could do my own. And BRG was the first thing I wanted -- but I couldn't find it, so my first on-my-own manicure was bright red with sparkles. I felt like I was channeling my inner grade school girl. Eventually, an old friend sent me a green that I found nearly impossible to distinguish from BRG and, even though it was not named that, that is what I called it when anyone commented on my nails. Other colors -- mostly, like JT says, greens and blues -- attract me, too, and I'm excited to explore.
My last manicure looked better than my previous ones and I've learned a lot about nailcare in the last two months -- enough to know that I and nearly every other identifying male doesn't know shit. My wife pointed out that I'm about the equivalent of a six or seven year old girl, since that's when a lot of folks start; that seems fair. Hopefully, my adult motor coordination will save me from several years of preadolescent brushwork, but I'm fine even if it does. Somehow, this just seems right.
In the last month or so, I have gotten a sense of why just my left hand: it's the hand I attend to most when I play viola. It seems meaningful to give it a little pride. I'm right handed, so I engage with it all the time; my left, though, has a role that my right could never take -- making music in that one special way since I was 12.
And I like that it leaves people wondering; it's a little queer flag, it marks me as a violist (in my mind, anyway), and, even when I'm not actually wearing BRG, it keeps a little MG Midget alive in my heart.
"...these cars and their streaks of countryside copse verde growl dustily through the backroads of my dreams..."
ReplyDeleteWhether this is something you just tossed off, or something you wordsmithed until it gleamed, this is an example of why your writing often makes me weak in the knees.
☺️Thanks!💕
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