The Nail Polished Stereotype

In the quiet corridors of my childhood memories, there lingers a day that shaped my perception in ways I didn't fully comprehend until much later in life. I was just nine years old, stepping into a new school year with the excitement and nervousness that comes with meeting a new teacher. Her name was Mridula, and to my young eyes, she was unlike any woman I had ever encountered.

On that first day, she stood before us, radiating poise and elegance. Her makeup was perfectly applied, her sleeveless blouse immaculately ironed, and her lips painted a bold shade of red that matched the cherry-red polish on her nails. Those nails, long and gleaming, commanded attention with their grace. I remember gazing at them, mesmerized by how they caught the light with every movement of her hand.

Until that moment, the most beautiful woman I knew was my mother - a sentiment shared by most boys, for whom their mother is the epitome of beauty and love. I had never considered that someone else might challenge that position in my heart. But here was Mridula Ma'am, introducing me not just to new lessons, but to the very idea that beauty could exist in a form I had never seen before.

Mridula Ma'am was also the first to teach me the word "Ma'am" - not "Madam," as I had been accustomed to hearing in the movies, but a softer, more respectful term that seemed to carry a sense of reverence. She was polished in every way; from the way she spoke to the way she carried herself. I recall how she would delicately use a fork to eat, chewing with her lips closed - a manner that was completely foreign to us then, as we were accustomed to using our hands, with food often smudged across our cheeks. Her elegance extended even to the simplest of actions, leaving an indelible impression on our young minds.

It was impossible not to notice the contrast between her and my mother, who was often in a rush, draping her saree hurriedly before heading to work. My mother was beautiful in a way that was familiar and comforting, but she never wore makeup or nail polish. Her hands were always busy - cooking, washing, cleaning - and the idea of her wearing bright red nails seemed as foreign as the idea of her sitting idle.

One day, in my childish curiosity, I asked my mother why she didn’t wear nail polish like Mridula Ma'am. Her answer was simple, yet it carried the weight of her daily struggles: “I have to cook, do the dishes, and wash clothes. If I keep nails, it will be difficult for my daily work.” I understood her reasoning, but it sparked a thought in my young mind - an unfair and unfounded stereotype. If my mother, who worked so hard, couldn’t wear nail polish, then perhaps women who did must not work as hard. In my innocence, I began to associate long, polished nails with a lack of diligence and trustworthiness.

This belief, though buried deep, lingered in my subconscious for many years. Through my teens and well into my adulthood, I found it difficult to admire women who wore nail polish or had long nails. I viewed them through the lens of that childhood stereotype, believing that they were more concerned with appearances than with the substance of hard work and responsibility. It wasn’t until much later - well into my 30s - that I began to question this perception.

With time, as I observed the women around me, I started to grasp the deeper lessons they quietly imparted. Women who balanced their professional and personal lives with grace, who wore nail polish not as a statement of privilege, but as a form of self-expression, a small act of self-care in their busy lives. I came to realize that my childhood stereotype was not only wrong but deeply unfair. The colour of a woman’s nails has nothing to do with her worth, her abilities or her character.

My mother, in her practicality, chose not to wear nail polish because it didn’t fit into her life. But that choice, like the choice of any woman, was personal and valid. Mridula Ma'am, on the other hand, chose to present herself in a way that made her feel confident and polished, and that too was valid. Both women were strong, capable and admirable in their own right. The stereotype I had carried for so long had been a disservice not just to them, but to every woman I encountered.

As I reflect on those days now, I understand the importance of looking beyond appearances. Women, like all people, should not be judged by the length of their nails or the polish they wear, but by their actions, their kindness and their strength. My mother may never have worn nail polish, but she was the strongest woman I knew, capable of balancing a home and a career with unwavering dedication. And Mridula Ma'am, with her polished nails, was a brilliant teacher who ignited a spark in her students, including me.

In the end, both women taught me valuable lessons - my mother about the quiet dignity of hard work, and Mridula Ma'am about the importance of self-presentation and confidence. It took me years to reconcile these lessons, but they have made me a better person, more aware of the biases we carry and the importance of challenging them.

So, to every woman who chooses to wear nail polish or not, who chooses to work at home or in an office, who presents herself in whatever way makes her feel most confident and comfortable—know that you are seen, you are respected, and you are valued for who you are, beyond the surface, by those who truly understand.