I was on a second date in a dimly lit Italian restaurant in Brooklyn when one of my false nails flew off my left hand and settled into my ravioli. We were one drink in and mid- conversation when I rested the hand in question on my knee, using the other to stealthily bury the evidence. After a short pause, the conversation continued, awkwardly moving on to siblings. Had he noticed? Was the lighting that soft?
This was the aesthetic blip I’d been dreading. The unexpected flinging-of-nail moment that had sworn so many people before me off press-ons; the date equivalent of Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl nip slip. My nail bed was a sorry sight: short and scuffed next to pristine, almond-shaped French tips. I’d quite literally been exposed. My false nails had been a safety blanket for my hands. They ensured I looked put together and polished. And they gave me edge, silently declaring that I was, as per a nail polish ad painted by Salvador Dalí that features beautifully manicured hands, the Portrait of a Passionate Woman.
