Do I dare?

A Starting Over at Sixty Blog

When living the corporate life, certain superficial things become important. A professional female executive has to dress right, style her hair a certain way and manicure her nails. I’m not talking about Cardi B nails. I’m referring to neatly trimmed, and almond-, round- or slightly squared-shaped gel polished nails. They’re a bit like wearing armor. No matter the crisis, the conflict or chaos, the nails are impeccable. They say: I’m in control.

I started doing my nails at the recommendation of a female executive. I used my hands a lot and never wore gloves. My nails were always cracked and short, a symbol of labor rather than leisure. The executive who encouraged me to get manicures had been similar: hardy hands that worked. When she got her nails done, however, she noticed one of those tiny, almost imperceptible, shifts toward greater attention and respect. The shift is like a hand on a clock moving one second— small, but certain.

This began my ritual of having my nails done every two to three weeks for nearly eighteen years. I hated spending the time in the salon, especially on the weekends when my schedule allowed me to go. From start to finish, my mani-pedi took at least two hours, depending on how busy the salon was. The lost time nagged at me, but I loved the finished look it gave me, along with my designer handbags and shoes. I was a professional woman with an executive-level career. This is what I projected.

This level of self-attention made a difference in my professional demeanor. Perhaps this came from the self-confidence I gained from looking coiffed and complete. Whatever the reason, the effort toward my nails put me in the executive ring— for all the executive women did their nails exactly the same way every week. Sometimes, when we worked in the office in New York City, two female executives stepped out early on Thursdays or Fridays to get their nails done before the weekend. I wasn’t afforded this privilege but I didn’t resent them. They worked hard. They did comment on how nice my nails looked, a subtle form of approval.

Over time, I began to use my nails as a moment of rebellion. Add a different color on my ring finger. Add a few tiny jewels, include a small design on one or two fingers. The holidays gave me an excuse to do more— add some black for Halloween, gold-foil fall leaves for Thanksgiving, bright sparkly red and chromed white for the winter holidays. By then, I was working from home most of the time and no one really noticed.

After my corporate work ended, I continued to do my nails for awhile. This seemed frivolous, however. Who was I trying to impress? I slowly began to release the commitment. I first stopped the gel fill, then got a pedicure less often, then only gel polish and finally, nothing. My nails are back to short, though I keep them trimmed, and I polish them myself. My poor cuticles crack as the weather gets colder. I slather my hands with rich emollients and oils and wear moisturizing socks to bed.

Do I notice any difference in my life now? Absolutely none. The circle I associate with now doesn’t care about my nails. I write at home, teach Jazzercise, hold community events, care for my pets and garden. Fitting a mold no longer impacts any part of my life. I am self-determined for the first time in my life. Freedom!

I found this freedom at 60. What if I had felt similar freedom earlier in my life? Do men have similar expectations? The suit-wearing days certainly placed an appearance code on men. But today? Men can go to work without jackets or ties. Men’s appearances, in general, aren’t scrutinized as women’s are.

Why do women need to wait until just-past mid-life to find this freedom— whatever the freedom is for that woman? For me, it was releasing the obligation of the nail salon. For others, it could be hair coloring or dressing a certain way. It can be wearing glasses instead of contacts. Whatever it is, women tend to find the courage to release the expectation after turning 60, the age of, “it’s my time now.” I needed a total life reset to find this point, but that’s where I am now

Fortunately, my daughters seem more unfettered by female appearance expectations than my generation ever did. Whenever they dress for certain occasions and my expectation-formed mind screams, “what!,” I remind myself that if they are fine, why shouldn’t I be also. So I let go. As of yet, no negative consequences have occurred from their balking the standards I grew up with.

I’m enjoying this self-determined era of my life. Who knows what’s next for me? I may wear Crocs to the grocery store. I may dye my hair pink. I’m reminded of Eliot’s poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” again: “I grow old… I grow old…. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?” Reading now, this poem resonates differently for me. I see an older man questioning the propriety of basic life decisions. Perhaps Eliot felt the social crush of pre-World War I expectations. Simple questions of dress, hair and nails should not weigh so heavily, but they do. Until you release them. I have. I will wear my hair white, my nails naked and enjoy a lollipop when I feel the urge. The world spinning on its axis will not shift because of this. Time carries on, with no memory of me and my small decisions and rebellions. For me, these small decisions multiply to become a freedom manifesto. I am who I am. That is enough.

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