The Ephemeral Poetry Of Chipped Black Nail Polish

Here for a dark time, not a long time

Dewrey Wolff

I never know what the appropriate price for a manicure is, but I consider all of them correct. I’ve been doing my own nails since I was a kid, blessed with a steady hand and absolutely no sense for urgency. I remember my next-door neighbor admiring the neat application of my Wet N Wild 416 emerald green manicure, stunned that an 11 or 12-year-old could be so skilled at a self-manicure. “Oh, I know why you’re so good at manicures,” she mused, in her thick Long Island accent. “It’s always Chinese ladies who work at the nail salon—makes sense now!”

I cannot remember the name of any of my hamsters, guinea pigs, or any pets smaller than a dog I had as a kid, literally anything I learned in any math class, or my SAT scores, but I remember that.

Also, they were Korean (the nail salon ladies, not my hamsters).

Shitty black nails were such a vibe that brands like OPI launched separating topcoat formulas to create the “crackle” effect. I often wonder if I’ll be seeing these make a comeback like all the Y2K beauty things seem to be.

Moody metallics and seashell-colored shimmers were all the rage in the late 90s/early aughts, the only other decent glossy-finish colors being red or sheer nude. 20 years ago it was nearly impossible to find a regular non-shimmery blue, pink, or yellow that wasn’t either thin and streaky or gluggy and thick. The exception to the rule was black. Black nail polish was acceptable in all textures and easy enough to find in the drugstore, which only stocked “safe” colors on the shelves at all times. Even the local mom-and-pop shops knew there’s always a customer for black nail polish.

My teenage self was as stylish as the sale racks at department stores allowed me to be, for the most part. But black nail polish was the one cool, rebellious thing I had to indicate I’m not that innocent (lol I definitely was). I was always yearning to hang out with the older kids, feeling simultaneously like an outcast and better than everyone, as all little teenage choisissez-mois do.

If you think I did NOT immediately clock Olivia Rodrigo’s chipped black nails on her NPR Tiny DMV performance, you’re dead wrong. Her music is chipped black nail polish incarnate.

The cool, weird, older kids wore their eyeliner shitty and their nail polish shittier. The way they lived in their makeup was so cool to me. They put it on and it didn’t come off until enough time, sebum, and sleep polished it away. They didn’t care about smudging — definitely, the heavier the better. Someone’s 99-cent Wet N Wild black eye pencil (or for the rich girls, Guerlain’s kohl powder liner) would be passed around the ladies restroom, re-lining the already encrusted makeup in between their lashes from days ago.

They definitely did not mind when their black nail polish chipped and chipped until it was completely off, only to be shellacked on again in anticipation of more adolescent erosion. Black was also the only acceptable nail color for guys to wear, generally to indicate that they were in some indie screamo scene without the danger of appearing as a homosexual (even though lots of them were definitely bullied homophobically).

I had a sophomore metal-head boyfriend my first year of college whose nails I’d paint black. He had long hair and an angry dad who would say “What did I tell you about that goddamn nail polish — you look like a faggot!” in front of me when I visited him in Connecticut one summer break. His parents wouldn’t let us sleep in the same room in their house, and he tucked a switchblade under my pillow, “just in case.” I never found out what the case was.

Peak chipped black mani: Khaite’s FW2020 show in which Jin Soon painted and then hacked away at models’ polished digits.

Black nail polish was the only cosmetic choice of mine that my mother complained of, which of course made it more powerful to me. When it inevitably started to chip (as all cheap nail polish does) starting from the tips and corners and eating its way towards the center, I’d absentmindedly start flicking and picking at the ragged edges. It was always annoying how brief the manicure lasted but so satisfying to finish the job. Acetone rarely accomplished what I could in one boring fourth-period class. I got in trouble with teachers for leaving a pile of sooty flakes on my desk in class.

Once the surface had been compromised, I’d start chiseling away at a work of art. Optimal chip-level was always when the half-moons were showing but enough of an inky shape remained in some Rorschach pattern, carved by the violent neurosis of my hands. It gave the once moody manicure a distinct kinetic quirk. A pristine black manicure tells me less about a person than when it starts to chip — how much of its destruction will be tolerated, are whole nails bare while others are intact, do you try to peel the whole thing off wholesale or flick it away absentmindedly? It’s like reading tea leaves, but fashion.

Even fashion herself says it’s fashion.

Black nail polish always has a place in whatever timeline it exists in. It transcends trends, the way the color black does throughout history. It performs all sorts of roles: mysterious, sleek, minimal, moody, angsty, chic, bold. Until it starts to chip. That’s when it begins its story of starts and fits — hasty mornings, absentminded preoccupations, nervous anticipation, annoyed impatience, bad traffic, a scary movie. Rarely are stories told via such delicate deconstruction, disappearing and diminishing the closer you get to the climax. Black nail polish was made for poetry. Its ephemeral nature performs tiny sonnets of self-sabotage for those patient enough to endure it. Some stories are shorter than others and some don’t bother with form or structure, like so many “bold” choices — once removed, twice removed, here for a while, and gone with the whims.