Nails

To say I felt uncomfortable was an understatement. Their polished, colorful nails glittered. Their eyelashes fluttered and sparkled. And I sat there with them, looking down at my dull, trimmed nails and hoping that I could be as pretty as the others. My parents wouldn't allow me to get my nails done, I knew. As I stared bitterly at my sickly peach skin and very ordinary hands, one of the girls tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, how was your performance yesterday?” she asked.

“Uh, it was pretty good,” I replied, smiling.

“Did I ever tell you your piano skills are so amazing?” she said, her jaw dropping in admiration. “Your hands move so fast, like what—?”

I turned pink. “Oh, thank you,” I stammered.

“I wish I could play that well,” the girl continued, staring at her own hands. She clicked her nails on the floor, sighing. “Can’t with these nails, though.”

“Your nails are so pretty!” I said, hoping to raise her spirits a bit. “I love the design.”

“They’re kind of useless,” the girl laughed. “I can’t do things well with these. I want nails like yours, but the others keep dragging me to get mine done. Your hands are really special - they hold so much more value!”

At that moment, I had never felt so proud to be me.