Since I was a child, my mom told me I could be a hand model, in the way a mother loves her daughter. My fingers are long and my wrists are delicately slim, yet there’s a subtle strength to my hands, as if they were made for kneading bread. More prominently, my nails are strong and they grow really fast. I don't necessarily need to trim them and there’s no need for polish. They rarely chip and I can pull a splitter out with my bare hands.
My mom would tell me that hand models always wear gloves as protection from the sun and everyday wear. “Even on hot days,” she said approvingly, praising their stateliness. In public, I watched for women in gloves, curious what they would look like, how they would hold themselves. Tall and lean, slightly slouched, with long dark hair. I wondered if I would look like them when I was older. I imagined them to be so pretty.
I’m attracted to both men and women, emotionally, romantically, sexually, and physically. I couldn’t say this aloud until 2021, and have only begun to accept this as a fundamental part of myself about six months ago. Only now have I wanted others to know this about myself, to bring it to a more central part of my lifestyle and identity.
Before then, this truth lived dormant – or rather suppressed – in my body since childhood. Attraction was confused for fascination. At each stage in my childhood and young adult life, I can recall an acutely specific moment where I thought “I think you’re … gay?” The first was in middle school walking to class after quick glances at classmates in the locker room. The second, I was in high school alone in my bedroom. The third was when my college friend held me in my bed as I cried over a boy. After she left, I still felt her arms around me.
Each moment conjured the same feeling: a knot in my stomach and a disorienting sense of clarity, a sensation so familiar, so enticing, so dirty, that I didn’t know what to do with it. It felt safer to let it lie – or push it down further. I like boys too, so I reasoned with myself my attraction for girls could be a choice.
Accepting my sexuality has been an act of asking for more. I’m actualizing a fuller version of myself and demanding its acknowledgment from others around me. Finding the confidence to say aloud a word that encapsulates a significant part of myself – bisexual – has been a defining moment of my mid-twenties, nothing short of a paradigm shift. The newness of the word, while fitting and right, holds a weight and certainty I’m still coming to terms with – this is who I am. Internalized homophobia has made for a sort of sexuality imposter syndrome.
And so, cutting my nails short, what once provided me an air of quiet elegance, has helped me lean in.
It’s liberating to shed these extra layers of keratin from my body, displaying and communicating my membership within a culture, history, and set of innuendos. I’m speaking a language of playful nuance and rebellion that’s unassuming to the hetero eye. Handing my credit card to the cute barista, the nub of my thumb in clear view, they tell me my outfit slays. I ask for their name. And so on, and so on.
But this expression has created a degree of anxiety, articulated through regular cosmetic upkeep and sustained attention. I’m always cutting my nails. I’m racing against my high levels of biotin, cutting short one of my body’s never-ending autonomic functions. My cuticles are left dry from clipping and trimming and shaping. I feel embarrassed on days when I forget to cut my nails and their white tips are in plain sight, especially when I’m in a queer space. I’m afraid to be perceived as the straight ally in a room full of gays.
At this stage of coming into myself, I have been gravitating towards symbols I can attach to and share my identity through, like a teenager with a room filled with posters of my favorite band, iconography to define me at first glance. With acne on my chin and peach fuzz on my face, my voice breaks, “Look at my nails. Look at my nails. Look at my nails.”
Indeed, I am new to my sexuality, wobbling to straighten my gawky legs and move within my body in a way that finally feels right. I teeter between a sublime reawakening and a prepubescent level of self-assurance. I want to tell everyone, but please don't make me say it too loudly.
Love, sex, and attraction have taken on new cues and dynamics, the same at their root for both genders, but at times, different in practice. It’s uncomfortable to feel, once again, new at dating and sex which operates like muscle memory with men. In this way, symbols have been helpful, to name a few, the term bisexual, short nails, my recurring sex dream with Julien Baker of boygenius. They give me a lightning rod for pent up authenticity, a validating anchor.
Building a queer community has also been essential in helping me come into myself. One of my closest and dearest friends, a fellow queer woman, has been one of the most influential. Sitting at our regular spot at our favorite wine bar, she told me recently:
“You know, Caroline, being gay is more than who you fuck.”
Her comment, short and poignant, revealed how I had been internalizing the early stages of my sexuality as a series of milestones and external validations as a way to give this part of myself credence. Without realizing it, I had been operating under the polar, heteronormative constructs that guided me for so long. I lived under the assumption that I would reach the fullest version of myself once I had a girlfriend, or used a strap, or chose to leave my armpits unshaven. Until then, I would continue to be “half straight,” one side of my bisexuality not fully realized.
Queerness is everything and nothing, encompassing the infinite configurations one can make of themselves. But ultimately, there's a simple truth I am coming to terms with: queerness asks you to be as you are, to walk a quiet journey within yourself. One of acceptance, redefinition, and joy.
Maybe I’ll let my nails grow a little longer. I’m not quite sure yet.
