When Nail Polish Is More Than Nail Polish
I spent about a decade of my life in Junior League, which meant I had roughly 10 different placements over the years. But the one I still think about the most was my placement as a special event coordinator for a faith-based organization that helps formerly sex trafficked girls and sexually exploited women.
There were four Junior League volunteers that shared that placement that year. The first event of the year was a do-it-yourself spa night for a group of ladies who were participating in the rehabilitation program while their children received free child care. We set up stations for manicures, pedicures, and facials, and printed out instructions at each station for how to do your own. Each volunteer manned a station to help where needed and engage with the ladies.
I had decided that manicures would be my station because I have some experience. I've done my own every week for 30 years. My mother always did her own nails when I was growing up. While we would bask in the glow of Murphy Brown or Designing Women, I'd watch intently as she gingerly applied her frosty pinks, iridescent corals, metallic bronzes: all the flashy colors Revlon peddled in the 80s. When I was in middle school, I asked if I could try. At first, it looked like a crime scene. I'd go through so many cotton balls and gallons of Cutex nail polish remover erasing my mistakes and trying to get my nails to be presentable. But after a lot of practice, I became quite good. In fact, by the time I was in high school, I occasionally helped my mom give manicures at my grandmother's nursing home.
The program leader, Sarah*, was one of the last to arrive that night. With her was a quiet, withdrawn girl with downcast eyes. Her long, black hair hung like a curtain in front of her lovely face. She was tiny. Almost childlike. She could've been 14 or 40. She seemed to retreat into herself as if she wanted to take up as little space as humanly possible. They sat at my station.
I watched her timidly attempt to figure out what all the tools were for in the manicure kit. She would pick one up examine it, halfheartedly try to use it, and set it back down. I inwardly cringed at the way she filed her nails, knowing what kind of hangnails were sure to result. I was genuinely surprised that it seemed she'd never seen any of these tools before. I was afraid of overstepping, but it was obvious that she would have real trouble with the nail polish. I delicately asked her if she would like me to give her a manicure. She seemed relieved and said yes.
During this season of my life, I was also involved in a ministry for women recovering from sexual abuse and assault. There was a big emphasis on maintaining boundaries since we'd all experienced those being stripped from us. With that in mind, for the first coat of polish, I didn't really touch her hand. Once she decided she liked the polish, she seemed to relax a little, so I gently held her hand for the second coat. By the third coat, I had her hand up to my face so I could actually see what I was doing, and she was calling other ladies to come look at her nails.
Once I finished her manicure, she asked if she could soak her feet at the pedicure station. Gladly, I set up a chair with a tub for her. I asked if I could help her take her socks and shoes off since her nails were still wet and she agreed. It was then that I noticed the ligature marks on her ankles. I felt a lump in my throat and a shock course through my body. It took all I had to maintain a poker face and not start tearing up. I felt God whisper, "She just wants to feel normal tonight." I swallowed hard and continued.
After she soaked her feet for a while, she nervously asked if I could paint her toenails too. I said, "Of course! That's what I'm here for!" Honestly, I'd never painted anyone's toes but my own, but I couldn't imagine a more deserving candidate. To my surprise, she chose a bold, bright pink. The girl who didn't want to be noticed was starting to fade away. Then, after a couple of coats, she asked if it would be possible to add navy blue polka dots. I was a little hesitant since I'd never attempted nail art of any kind, but she encouraged me as I tried various tools to get the job done. After I was finished, she proudly showed off her pedicure to the other ladies. It was time for them to go about the time I put on the top coat. She thanked me profusely and left.
As we were cleaning up, one of the other volunteers said with tears in her eyes, "It was incredible to watch her open up the more you poured into her." Holding back tears of my own, I simply nodded. Sarah told us that she was new to the program and it had been her first night in the group with the rest of the ladies. She'd been nervous and looking for a reason to leave — especially when she found out there would be pedicures. She was self-conscious about the marks on her legs. I let the tears flow.
It was then that I realized how much I had in common with this girl. We were both in recovery from abuse. We were both trying to heal. Neither of us had wanted to be there that night. We had both looked for reasons to leave early. But God put us together in that moment and blessed us both. It was not lost on me that if just one or two things had been different about my story, it could’ve been me in that chair: different family, different background, different circumstances. That was several years ago, but I still think about and pray for her often.
And when my son picked out a bright pink nail polish for me to try the other day, she immediately came to mind. As I remembered her smile slowly spreading across her face, I felt one spread across mine as well.
*Name has been changed