“Mommy, can I get fake nails too?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, pleease…” the twelve-year-old girl pleaded sweetly.
“The glue would ruin your little nails,” her mother replied, trying to reason with her.
“What if I just tried it once? Just this once? It’s summer anyway…”
“But they’re so tacky! Especially on your tiny fingers. How would that even look? They don’t even make fake nails that small.”
“Anita got some for her birthday. Her mom let her wear them for a few days, and then she had to take them off.”
“How about we paint your nails with sparkly red polish instead, hmm?”
“But Mooom…” the girl whined.
“I’ll call Anita’s mom and ask.”
“Thank you!” the girl squealed.
“Don’t thank me yet. I didn’t promise anything. I said I’d call. That doesn’t mean I’ll say yes.”
“Pick something that isn’t huge and clunky. They all look massive to me,” the mother warned sternly a few days later, having finally caved after relentless begging.
Just this once. Just for a few days. Just at home. Okay, she could show Anita. But then, no exceptions: they had to come off.
Her daughter didn’t care about any of those conditions. With flared nostrils, flushed cheeks, and shining eyes, she launched herself into the fake nail aisle at the store.
She grabbed box after box, hunting for the prettiest set.
“Look at these! They’re not even that big!” she beamed.
“Hmm,” her mother nodded approvingly. “They’re actually kind of cute.”
“You like them?” the girl asked hopefully, wanting her mom to embrace the moment and share her joy.
“Yes,” she answered gently.
Since she had agreed, she didn’t want to spoil the moment.
The black-and-white patterned nails, dotted with tiny yellow flowers, were actually among the more tasteful stick-on options.
“Who needs to pee?” the mother asked as they entered the museum.
After more than ten years of parenting, she was used to asking this question every half hour whenever they went anywhere.
This time, only her daughter needed the restroom. Her husband and son waited in the lobby.
“Can you help me?”
“With what?” the mother asked, puzzled.
“Um… opening the door,” came the impatient voice from inside the stall.
“How can I help when you’re inside and I’m out here?”
“I can’t open it!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you have to turn a knob, but I can’t do it because of the nails.”
The mother stared blankly at the door.
“You’re kidding.”
“Mom!” the girl snapped, her voice laced with fear. “Please open it!”
“I can’t believe a knob is too much for you. Try turning it a few different ways.”
From inside, the sounds of desperate fumbling filtered out.
“Come in and open the door!” the girl cried.
The mother realized she needed to calm her daughter first.
She figured the lock was simple, but to unlock it, the girl would have to pull herself together.
“Take a deep breath and step away from the door. Don’t touch it. First you need to calm down. You know this is just a bathroom door, not some tricky puzzle. You’ve opened hundreds like this. It’s just a knob that needs a tiny turn. Your nails aren’t stopping you.”
“Okay…” the girl sniffled.
“Hold your hand so all your fingers point down toward the floor. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Now turn it so your thumbnail faces the door.”
“Okay…”
“Now, from the side, place your fingers on the knob. This way, you should be able to turn it.”
After what felt like an eternity, the door finally opened.
“See? I told you you could do it!” the mother said, elated.
“Sure…” the girl muttered, trying to hold back tears. “I broke my nails to open it…”
Moments later, she gave in to a full-blown, tension-releasing sob.