Bite 'Em Down

When I was a little girl I used to bite my nails. I used to bite them hardcore. I never half-assed homework assignments and I never half-assed biting my nails. It was all too common that I’d wake up with blood on my pillow or face from my bleeding nail beds. I couldn’t open plastic wrapped items such as DVD’s or Snapple bottles and I certainly couldn’t handle citrus fruit, no matter how much I loved to lick lemons. Sometimes my jagged edged tips would catch on a piece of fabric and rip through my cuticle, causing me to collapse to the ground. Despite the bewildering pain shooting from my fingertips through my hand and half way up my arm, my fingers would be back in my mouth dancing the tango with my incisors.

I bit my nails so much I etched notches in my front teeth and my mom said that if I didn’t stop biting my nails my front teeth would look like little carpenters saw’s and my beautiful smile would be ruined. I’d be chipping away while listening, holding my neck in a painful and awkward position to get the best piece of keratin to rip from my digits. The feeling of relief when that bit of nail would rip off was like ecstasy. I could breathe easier.

I remember the day I stopped. Someone called me unattractive. I was devastated. I decided I was going to stop but not before I bit my nails the shortest they had ever been. I wore ten band aids on my fingers for a week after that. My brother had come home from college with his girlfriend and I couldn’t wait to tell him the good news. “Look!” I said, “Look how long my nails are!” My brother looked at my hands, “Its about damned time you quit that filthy habit.” I knew how he meant it but it was not the response I was looking for. His girlfriend saved him by piping in. “Oh, really?” she asked excitedly. “My sisters and I used to bit out nails when we were kids. When did you stop biting?” She had a hold of my hands when I said excitedly, “two weeks!” “Oh,” she said. Why was no one impressed!

Cut to six years later and I am a reformed nail biter; ninety-nine percent of the time. “Mom,” I say in a heavy voice. “Look what I did.” My eyes were still red and raw from crying and my words still held the remnants of a whimper. My breath was labored and my saliva was thick, causing me to swallow hard.

My mom looked at my hands and crooned. “Oh, honey.” She took my hands and shone more light on them. “What did you do, you’re nails were healthy and long.”

“Habits die hard,” I choked. “But I don’t remember biting being this painful.” I shut my eyes.