Last night, I painted my fingernails pink. I was testing the cold water drying trick, in which you paint your fingernails, then stick them in a bowl of cold water for three minutes to dry them. (It worked, but not as amazingly as I may have expected.) I chose the pink purely for its annoying tendency to never fully dry, even three days after application.
Pink and I have an awkward history. When I was 6, I demanded that my tiny bedroom be painted cotton candy pink. I’m sure there was a time when I loved it, when I enjoyed the pink walls and my brightly coloured duvet cover. I suppose one might say I was a ‘girly girl’, though one could also argue that I was simply trying to balance the hard masculine nature of the farm on which I grew up with a little pink femininity. Subconsciously, of course, what with being 6 years old and all.
As I grew older, the pink faded, I scribbled on the walls in places, mismatched furniture came and went, my colourful bedspread was replaced with a new blue one that matched the curtains. Pink began to irritate. I was growing up, no longer a little girl. When I left home for university, pink and I were at such odds, I swore I would never like pink again.
And now, my fingernails are pink and I’m wondering if I’m changing my mind.
Can pink and I have some sort of reconciliation? Can we develop some sort of relationship now that I’m an adult? Something mature, sophisticated, chic, without being over the top or blindingly a reminder of pepto-bismol?