'You should never have chipped nail polish.

Either it looks good or you don't wear it'

Those words belong to a friend of mine's old friend. I have never met this person, but I imagine her being a very well-put-together woman, with soft white hair tied up in a bun, a simple string of pearls around her long neck and her hands resting on her lap. Perfect.

I thought a lot about these words, every time I looked at my hands, to be precise. See, my nails are never perfect. My nail polish is never not chipped. Sometimes it chips within the first hour of wearing it. I blamed the polish, the top coat, my impatience. But I don't think that's right. The thing is, I use my hands. They're in my hair when I'm thinking, in my mouth when I'm nervous. They restlessly run up and down my skin right there where a mosquito decided to leave a bite. They tap on every surface, slide on every cheek. They go through water and dirt and flaky lips. They are covered now in ink and now in soap. And in this vortex of skin and walls and paint, some nail polish gets lost. It's the sacrifice that my life requires, and I'm not mad about it.

So I decided to start this series to celebrate the beauty of chipped nails. The beauty of slightly faded eyeliner after a night out and messy hair after a rough morning. The beauty of something that's not perfect, because life got in the way.

Here I'm wearing L'Orèal Hypnotic Red, a beautiful deep red and a dupe for Essie's Wicked. Two coats, chipped.