When French Tips Turn Trashy
Photo credit
by Sara Alba, Editor-in-Chief, Brewtiful Living
Toronto, ON — In a chic, high-end nail salon nestled in one of the city’s most expensive neighborhoods (a place with eucalyptus-scented towels, minimalist decor, and silence that costs extra) a woman walked in with hope.
She carried a dream: soft, tapered French tips. Elegant. Subtle. A whisper of wealth, not a scream. A nail that said “I book dental cleanings on time” and “I don’t follow trends—I just always look like this.”
She left with trauma. And a receipt.
I know this, because that woman was me.
Exhibit A: The Photo
It started like every classic nail appointment disaster: with a Pinterest photo.
A clean almond shape. A milky base. The kind of French tip that whispers, “I’m expensive, but you’ll never know how much.”
I presented it politely, reverently. I made eye contact with my technician. I used phrases like “subtle white,” “not too thick,” and “clean lines, please.” I even circled the tip style in the photo. I was clear. I was communicative. I was vulnerable.
What I got in return… was not that.
Exhibit B: The Nails
Imagine, if you will, an episode of Laguna Beach where the B-roll girls get ready for prom. Now imagine those nails, but somehow worse. That’s what I walked out with.
They were square-ish. The white tips were thick, like they were done with a paint roller. They had that early-2000s gap between the cuticle and color that screamed “I’m letting my mom drop me off at Hollister.”
They looked like they belonged to someone who says “literally” too much and still wears Victoria’s Secret body spray unironically.
They were not timeless.
They were not chic.
They were… offensively Y2K.
The Tip Heard Round My Bank Account
I smiled. I thanked her. I tipped.
Because this is what we do. We tip for emotional labor. We tip for effort. We tip because we’re too socially conditioned to say, “This is not what I asked for.”
And so I paid nearly $100 to walk out with ten fingers of regret.
It wasn’t just the shame of knowing I was about to walk around like this, telling people I “just felt like something different.”
It was also, very much, the price. A reminder that I paid for my own disappointment—and tipped for it, too.
4:17 PM — Post-Tip Despair
I got home. Took a long look under natural lighting.
That’s when the emotional hangover hit.
It’s the same feeling you get after sending a risky text. Or ordering clothes from a sketchy website. A mix of nausea, denial, and internal screaming.
I paced. I tried placing my hands against various backdrops—my marble counter, my sweater, my coffee cup. Nothing helped.
My hands looked like they belonged to a different person.
A stranger. Someone who watches Selling Sunset unironically.
The Quiet Humiliation of Aesthetic Regret
There’s a certain kind of sadness that comes when your outer self doesn’t match your inner self. You envision elegance. What you get is chaos. But worse—it’s visible. Every gesture, every wave, every casual hand placement becomes a reminder that you failed at being your own muse.
And no, you can’t just “go get them redone.” That’s another $100, another tip, another emotional rollercoaster. Plus, you’re busy. You’re emotionally recovering.
The Aftermath
Day 1: Rage.
Day 2: Acceptance.
Day 3: Strategic finger curling in all public situations.
By Day 5, I was telling people, “I was going for retro,” just to feel some control.
The real tragedy? I’ll probably go back.
Because that’s the delusion of beauty culture—we’re always chasing the next time it’ll be better.
Editor’s Note: What We Learn From Bad Nails
Sometimes you don’t get the nails you wanted.
Sometimes you get the nails you deserve for trying to curate your life through aesthetics. And sometimes? That’s the story.
So if you’re reading this, freshly French-tipped in all the wrong ways, know this:
You’re not alone.
You are not your cuticles.
And yes—those would look better in a different lighting.
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