Every single moment of your life is a nail biter. You have no idea why; it’s just been that way for as long as you remember. You picked it up from your father, the way he would absentmindedly send fingers to his mouth, using the action as an outlet for stress. He probably didn’t think much of it then, and maybe he didn’t even realize he was doing it so often. What he didn’t understand was that he was performing for an audience of one – a little girl with an impressionable mind and strong teeth.
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It’s a boyish behavior, you know. Your mom has only told you a thousand times: “Get your hands out of your mouth.” Her voice fills your head when you suddenly hear the crunch of a loose fingernail, having no idea when you put your fingers there in the first place. You wish you had the nerve to tell her that all you’ve ever wanted is to burn the bridge between your mouth and your fingertips. What you would give to take a lighter to it all, to feel your life slowly catch flame until someone new rises from the ashes – someone with long, feminine nails.
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You gnawed your way through braces, even after the orthodontist’s many warnings. “Most people can’t even bite their nails with braces on,” he said, peering into your mouth as he adjusted some of the brackets. “It’s how lots of kids kick the habit.” Kick the habit? Oh, you would show him. When your mom wasn’t looking, you snuck in nail bites like other kids with braces snuck in popcorn, proving to even the ortho veterans that old habits die hard.
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For your senior prom, you asked for French tips at the nail salon. The lady doing your manicure looked down and disapprovingly stated, “You bite?” Brows furrowed, she reluctantly sealed the plastic extensions onto your stubs.
That night, you felt beautiful. Like Cinderella, almost, because here you were at a grand party where no one would question the look of your hands. No one would turn to you and ask, “Why are your fingertips so red?” No one would give you judgmental looks as you pull at loose skin with your teeth. You had the confidence – and the barrier – to stop, even if for a moment. With your billowy pink dress and French manicure to match, you had done what you thought was impossible: stepped into the role of normal teenage girl.
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You’ve asked every boy you’ve ever dated if he bites his nails. You do this to see if he’s like you – if he can relate. It evolved into a ritual where you’d pull his hand on top of yours and run the pads of your fingers across his nails, back and forth until you concluded you had him all figured out. You’re not sure why this matters so much, but smooth, clean edges with untouched white bands that form even semicircles perpetuate a nervousness within you. The looks on other girls’ faces have drilled it in your brain: It’s embarrassing when your boyfriend has better nails than you.
You’ve found yourself fooled many times; it may look like he’s a chronic nail biter, but that’s just how a man’s nails are: short, stumpy, and indistinguishable. Boyish behavior. You know. Maybe this is why you’ve always felt more comfortable around men, because you picked it all up from your dad – firm handshakes, the art of the golf swing, and, of course, the nail biting.
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You broke 13 brackets in the two years you had braces. Standard procedure was to begin charging patients after the third break, but they didn’t act until the last one, a month before your braces were scheduled to come off. Your mom made a point to scold you about the costs you could have incurred, but that was the only repercussion you suffered. Plus, your teeth were beautiful, so who could really complain? Back then you thought you were lucky. Now you wonder if the dental assistants pitied you.
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A week after prom, you couldn’t help put pick at your manicure, first resting the tips on your bottom teeth, then softly biting down. They quickly became shredded and cracked, becoming so jagged you were forced to rip them off yourself. It was the very thing the nail salon told you not to do, but hot shame crept into your face when you imagined what they would say about the chewed-up plastic.
You spent two excruciating hours trying to soften the glue and peel off the tips. What remained underneath was horrifying – a set of ten soft, malleable, real nails. You could press down on the nail with your finger and watch it become a concave structure. The act sent a shiver down your spine until the keratin built up again and your nails were back to the perfect texture for biting.
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You were forced to quit golfing after your dad found you unteachable. Your handshake startles a majority of the women you meet. And, when you catch glimpses of your friends’ nails, perfectly shaped and polished, you feel defeated. The contest was womanhood, and you’re beginning to see just how painfully you lost.
Maybe spending more time with your mom wouldn’t have been such a bad thing.
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How many nails have you chewed and swallowed over the years? You imagine the little white shards collecting in your stomach, stabbing organs, slicing through skin, pilling up so high that one day you’d throw up tiny knives and get taken to the hospital. What would they even do? You’d probably die, you conclude. And everyone would show up at your funeral saying, “There was only so much we could do to get her to stop.”
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You are home from college on a break and watching TV in your living room when your dad walks in. He looks over at you and notices a few things: how your legs are splayed across the couch, how your ratty sweatshirt has a chocolate stain across the torso, how you’re biting away at one of your nails. He asks, “Why do you have your hands in your mouth?” A grimace falls onto his face, the same disappointed look your mom has given you for years.
In that moment, you feel genuinely horrible about the habit. You know he means well – everyone just wants you to grow out of it already – but the plea coming from the mouth of the man you picked it up from stings almost as badly as the exposed skin under the nail you were just biting. To make amends, you walk over to the kitchen and put a band-aid on your finger. When you return to the living room, you keep your hands in your lap and sit straight up on the couch.
Betrayal in its finest form.