When I was little I remember sitting on the chesterfield with my mum and randomly sliding my fingertips under her nail beds. Her long claws were always well polished and extremely strong; a true contrast to my own little digits. My mothers attention to her hands amazed me for she spent a vast amount of time digging in her garden, scraping through the hard soil and yet somehow her nails were consistently well manicured. Her dedication to maintain feminine hands continues to inspire me and therefore encourages me to ask permission from Master to divulge in pampered manicures myself.

One such decadence occurred yesterday when I asked Master if I might accompany my sister at the spa. Master, being his generous self, granted me such permission; however it was not without expectation. Master stated that should I desire to have my fingers painted I must have them coloured a soft baby pink.

Yes, baby pink.

Immediately upon hearing such a command I felt myself resist Masters choice and instinctively my body curled inward, an innate physical reaction I experience when I disagree with an action about to take place which affects me personally. In a desperate attempt to change Masters mind I shared with him the many shades of crayons he might consider, especially the jewel and earth tones I find most attractive on me and yet all attempts I made resulted in the same answer: ‘no’. Unlike other battles, this time I made only a few protests as I knew Master would not alter his decision and more importantly I understood the why behind his choice.

Master is not an overly keen fan of the colour pink. Yes, he would agree that pink is a pretty colour and he is absolutely attracted to all of the parts of my body which are naturally pink; however, pink is not the colour he would generally insist my nails to be. In fact, both Master and I appreciate the French tip to be the most attractive, which is of course, why I was so utterly stunned by his random pink palate. Well, momentarily shocked for it took but a second to realise exactly what Master was trying to achieve and once I knew this my resistance was even stronger.

Internally stronger, that is. Outwardly I obeyed. I grew quiet and thanked Master for allowing his slave to have an hour of pampering then I excused myself from our conversation and left with my sister to our appointment. The car drive was brief, thankfully and I found myself stewing about Masters choice, ruminating about why he enjoys pressing my sensitive buttons. Such buttons were pushed once more as I sat before my esthetician and responded with “soft baby pink please” as she asked what colour I would like. I could tell immediately by her expression and lack of words that she was surprised by such a choice. I then asked her when the last time was that she had painted someone’s fingernails the bubblegum shade I had requested. Shyly she stated it had not been that long ago but that she had used the paint for a group of twelve year old girls on a night of a birthday party. I nodded somberly and in the same fashion as I had hours earlier I found my shoulders curling inwards, my back no longer poised and straight but rather slouched and withdrawn.

Quietly I sat as the pretty girl slid the brush up along my delicate talons and for every stroke I found myself stumbling into a part of me that I try so desperately to ignore. Master knew exactly what would take place once each nail was coated in this foreign colour and without even realising my actions I found myself giggling, swinging my legs from under me, even applying my frosty wet gloss upon my lips accentuating my doll like qualities. As I slowly transformed I found myself fighting back a growl, angry that my behaviours were no longer within my control, frustrated because I felt judged, felt ashamed, felt betrayed by myself.

People pick many different shades to paint ones nails, from black to electric blue to orange, to red to clear and no one places judgment on those with rainbow claws. I, on the other hand, have decided that unless my nails are adorned with a French tip then I am not worthy, not desirable, not intelligent, less of a person. How ridiculous to put such weight on something so minute and how absurd to think I am that special that everyone I meet is taking that much consideration into what I am wearing on my fingertips.

Still, as I left the salon I could not help as though I had somehow in the process dropped a few I.Q. points solely based on my manicure. The entire duration of the drive home along with my time sitting on my bed prior to calling Master I pondered why I felt as though I suddenly became dumb; silly and dumb. I still have no answer and yet as I type I can not help but notice the soft rose hue blaring up at me, screaming at me to understand that should Master desire me to be his silly little bimbo than that is exactly what I am.

Master has often commented that I have placed my value on my intelligence, that it is perhaps my security blanket and I can not help but agree. My intelligence is something I have held to, connected my worth to and when I feel as though I am losing that quality or that someone is thinking I am not intelligent it leaves me with a sense of defeat, with a feeling of uselessness. But this is my battle, not Masters. Master has always appreciated my knowledge, both academic and street and he has always encouraged me to learn, to continue my education in whatever way I wish. At the same time though he pushes me to embrace other aspects of life, the ‘darker’ (my words) sides to myself and to quit judging myself (along with others) and enjoy the pleasures that can come when not resisting, when letting go.

I am still not comfortable with the polish that shouts at me every time I massage cream into my hands but I am no longer fearful that I have suddenly become stupid and therefore undesirable. Not judging myself will take more than one manicure but fortunately for me I am competitive and therefore I will continue to strive to release the bimbo in me, coaxing her out into the playground of decadence.

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