No one really talks about it. We love to debate the appendix or the tonsils. Perhaps it is because we are so keenly familiar with our fingernails that we give them a free pass. We wouldn’t want to question their apparent purposelessness into admitted uselessness.
No, instead we care for them with great detail. Though some of us are juvenilely attached to the chewing vice they can offer, we usually take time to measure them out in neat little lines against our fingers.
We cut, file, moisturize, and even paint them.
In fact, walking into any nearby drug store in America will reveal our deep affection for dressing up our nails. Colors from any shade or hue you can think of. Add some sparkle or iridescence, too! We even have clear polish for the classy and subtle girl.
It’s a whole industry. Nail polish, cuticle pushers, nail files, nail clippers, varying degrees of layering for the truly dedicated.
It is though God gave us tiny little canvases on the ends of our most used and tactilely sensitive body parts. Paint on dots, stripes, animals, flowers, words, patterns. I’m amazed by how huge life is and yet how diligently we can focus on our nails.
Detail should never surprise or elude us.
I am ever impressed with how our time is spent in such dedication for a thing so temporary and even more so fragile. Anyone who washes dishes daily or does any labor intensive job runs the immediate risk of destroying the art upon her fingers.
What I find mildly entertaining is that one chip in the beautifying coat renders the work fairly ruined and overwhelmingly reduces the impression and quality of the appearance.
How often have you judged someone by one chip?
The effort is dismissed and attention is drawn to a flaw instead of a flare.
Is it better then to have never painted at all?