Nails at Work
There was a period of time, from ages eighteen to twenty-one, that my nails were perpetually coated with a hard layer of coloured gel. I had just started working as a copywriter in an advertising firm, and was hyper-conscious of my status as the youngest person in the company. As a result, I tried all kinds of ways to make myself appear older: I applied overly thick eyeliner, tottered in heels all the time, and wore clothes which gave the impression of a child playing at being grown up. Lastly, every month, I took the train to an old shopping mall far from my home, picking my way through its labyrinth-like structure in a bid to locate the same nameless nail salon that would file and paint my nails for twenty dollars, instead of the standard twenty three. It was an extra five dollars if I wanted French tips, a luxury I allowed myself every few months. In those months, I’d feel extra adult as I tapped away at the keyboard, trying to come up with copy that proved I was more than just the number of my years.
I tried ways to make each manicure last as long as possible — I chose designs that accommodated nail growth, I applied body moisturiser to my nails to make them stronger. On occasion, I even coloured the bottom of my cuticles, the fresh bits, with coloured marker to match the rest of the gel. I thought it wasn’t obvious as long as you didn’t stare closely.
People around me were kind, they remembered what it was like to be that age. My colleagues didn’t comment on my nails, my hair, or my clothes. Instead, they were super friendly, and often paid for my food if we took lunch break together. It made me even more determined to be taken seriously. I’d offer to get coffee, to pay for drinks, but they’d laugh and wave my debit card away. Come on, they would say, how can we let you pay, you’re eighteen.
I had a good relationship with my colleagues. They were nice to me and everything, but when it came to work, they were all business. They gave useful feedback, and pressed me on deadlines. I didn’t get to slack off on account of my age, is what I’m saying. In fact, whenever I was reprimanded for a careless mistake, or pushed for better ideas, I felt good. I was serious about my work, and I appreciated them holding me accountable. It made me want to work harder. I would return to my company-issued computer and tap tap tap at the keyboard, watching my coloured nails dance across the letters with a deep and determined pleasure.
One of my biggest clients was a third-party auto insurance company helmed by a loud man in his early forties. He was my favourite sort of person — straightforward, cheerful, kind, and smart. I don’t remember his name now, but I remember the kind of things he said, and the way he said them. Like, if he didn’t like an idea we pitched, he’d say, ugh, I don’t know about that, pulling a funny face so the rejection didn’t feel personal. If he did like an idea, he’d sit up straighter, and make noises of approval. One time, when I proposed a campaign tagline, he jumped right out of his seat. “That’s genius!” he said, laughing loudly. “It’s great. Don’t change a word of that.” He turned to my boss. “I want her working on this campaign.” He actually didn’t have a choice, since there weren’t that many copywriters to go around, but his excited outburst infected the entire meeting room. I was smiling all the way home.
I ended up working on a long-term project for this client. They wanted to create a website, and populate it with keyword-rich educational articles, so that anyone searching for car insurance in Singapore would land on their page and buy their plans. It wasn’t a difficult project, just tedious. I didn’t mind. I love writing, and no matter what people say about not needing validation, I like it when people enjoy my work. I spent a lot of time on that project, I was proud of the work I did, and my supervisor was too. We passed it on to the client via email. He was pleased, and said it’d probably all be fine, if there were any changes he’d bring them up at the next meeting, but he expected they’d be minor.
What I didn’t know was that the client was married to a retired journalist. She’d been at the top of her game back in the UK before they relocated here for her husband’s work. I don’t know what she did now. I only came to know about her when she joined our next meeting, after hearing that the copywriter on the team was eighteen. It took place over a conference call, where she tore my work apart and screamed at me for being incompetent. Everything had to be redone. Before she hung up, she said, and I will remember this forever, we’re paying you good money, you shouldn’t hire kids.
It was towards the end of my nail cycle. My nails, painted in a shiny black, had grown out half an inch, and I’d used a sharpie to fill in the rest. After she rung off, the meeting room was silent, my colleagues stunned by her outburst. One of them finally said, that was uncalled for. Another agreed: she’s not the client, she shouldn’t have come on the call, that was completely unprofessional. Although later, I would cry, at that point I didn’t say anything. I stared at my nails, at the part where the gel stopped and the marker ink began. I don’t know why I thought no one would notice, it was obvious.
That was over ten years ago. Who knows, maybe my work truly was crap. But all I know is, ever since then, I’ve let my nails grow out, I don’t color them in anymore. Even if my nails are brightly coloured, and the nail bed growth is obvious, it no longer bothers me, I don’t mind being seen for what I am.
