One Nail at a Time
A personal narrative of memory, modesty, and quiet rebellion
A Toronto Summer
By Meagan
The heat and humidity of a Toronto summer was too much for my thick hair, tucked under a black beret. I wanted desperately to take that hat off. That beret, a symbol of obedience, compliance, suffocated my hair. Sweat pooled beneath it like tears from my scalp — my hair was crying.
Should I release my sweaty scalp, my crying hair from the beret of bondage?
But what if someone from church saw me with my hair uncovered? Could I risk it?
I was going to the mall — the same one where many of the church members shopped. As I walked through the parking lot, I saw regular people in regular summer clothes: shorts, t-shirts, tank tops, sundresses. They had options. Choices.
Not me.
I wore below-the-knee denim skirts, three-quarter sleeve tops, modest t-shirts, and of course, the mandatory head covering of some kind. Even when I wore sandals, my toes went unpainted. Nail polish of any kind wasn’t allowed.
Later, in my mid-teens, I found small ways to rebel.
I started with clear nail polish.
The Scent of Imagination
I passed a drugstore. Slowly, almost unknowingly, I stopped and walked in. The doors opened with a sigh, and a wave of cool air greeted me. The scent of perfume hung in the air — powdery, musky, inviting. It beckoned me toward the beauty department.
Crystal bottles lined the shelves like small altars — each one holding something sacred and dangerous.
Scents of sin.
Seduction.
Liberation.
Joy.
Wanting.
They didn’t just smell like something.
They meant something.
A life I wasn’t allowed to want. A self I wasn’t supposed to imagine.
I picked up a few testers and let the fragrance rise from the paper cards. Jasmine. Amber. Smoke and sweetness. Each one a glimpse into a world I wasn’t permitted to explore.
Then I saw it: Poison, by Dior.
The name alone thrilled and terrified me. It was a name that was a warning, a hiss of taboo.
The bottle — dark purple, shaped like a secret — hid the liquid of danger.
I sprayed it once on my wrist. It hit like a slap, cold and sudden.
The scent rose up like smoke from an altar, curling its way into my nose, filling my nostrils. My brain came alive. Was this how Eve felt when her eyes were opened?
Are mine?
The tester bottle was half empty.
I wondered how many other girls had stood where I stood,
spraying themselves with the scent of something forbidden.
A moment of imagination.
A hint of danger.
A permission they didn’t have anywhere else.
I didn’t buy it, of course.
I just let it linger on my skin as I walked through the mall,
tucked beneath my modest sleeves.
But for a few hours, I carried it with me —
a secret I could smell.
The Pilgrimage
I continued my pilgrimage through the mall.
Not shopping, not really.
Window-shopping.
Wandering.
Wanting.
I drifted past stores I’d never enter,
clothing I wasn’t allowed to wear —
halter tops that shimmered like sunlight,
fitted jeans that promised freedom in every seam,
forbidden swimsuits with bold cuts and louder colours.
I paused at displays of jewelry,
glass cases holding delicate chains and shining rings,
little things that sparkled like temptation.
They weren’t just accessories.
They were invitations.
Invitations I dared not entertain.
Take me home.
Try me on.
Imagine who you could be.
And I did. Quietly.
I imagined myself with a pendant resting just below my collarbone.
With red polish on my fingertips.
With hair uncovered, caught in the wind like a flag of surrender or victory — I wasn’t sure which.
I kept walking. I didn’t buy anything else.
But the wanting stayed with me.
Not as sin.
As signal.
A pulse I could no longer ignore.
One Nail at a Time
The clear nail polish was my secret liberation, hidden in the back of my dresser drawer. I took it out just to look at it, turning the bottle in my hand like it held a tiny universe. I kept waiting for the right moment. A moment when the house was still. When my heart wasn’t racing quite so fast.
That moment never came.
So I chose one anyway.
I sat on my bedroom floor, legs crossed beneath me, the door locked, just in case. I spread out a white towel like a sacred cloth and set up my manicure altar.
Nail clippers. A file. And my bottle of subtle freedom.
It stood there like a quiet truth I was finally ready to unbottle.
I clipped each nail carefully, filed the edges smooth, preparing them like tiny altars of their own. I picked up the bottle. Unscrewed the cap. In slow motion, I watched the brush rise, glistening.
I took a nervous breath, trying to fill my lungs with unpolished air.
With a beating heart, I opened the clear nail polish bottle.
I didn’t spill any.
This was autonomy in a bottle.
I dipped the brush again. Held it above my thumbnail.
Then with one smooth stroke I crossed the Rubicon.
The shine caught the light. Brilliance on my nails. Invisible to most. But unmistakable to me.
It dried quickly, but the feeling lingered.
Not guilt. Not shame.
Just breath. Just being.
A small, silent kind of freedom.
May you find liberation in ways that are true to you.
With an open heart,
Meagan