A Fresh Set and a Fresh Lesson

My friend surprised me with a Beetle’s nail kit for my birthday two years ago all because I said I couldn’t find an affordable gel-x nail tech in my area. And so, I became my own nail tech in my bedroom, hand-filing both hands and praying my non-dominant hand didn’t betray me. Fast forward to present day: I’ve discovered hard gel, upgraded my equipment and product, and yet… I’m still using the same tiny UV lamp from that birthday gift. A humble beginning turned permanent fixture in my DIY salon.

There is something so femininely beautiful about the minutes after a fresh set. We all do the exact same choreography — hold out our hands, spread them like we’re counting to ten, tilt them under the light, then fold them into that accidental ASL letter “A” to examine every corner. The topcoat is at its shiniest point, the shape is scooped and sculpted to perfection, and for a moment, you can’t see a single flaw. Doing my nails has made me appreciate the craft so much more. It’s not just designs; it’s chemistry, product knowledge, pressure control, patience, attention to microscopic detail. Nails are an art, but the tools? They’re science.

It took me forever to realize I was allergic to Beetle’s formula — partly denial, partly being too broke to explore alternatives. Eventually I gave in and invested in myself: electric file, primer, non-burning builder gel, masks, lint-free wipes, acetone, a slightly better gel system. Over $100 just to begin. Nail companies are fully aware of the rise of the DIY girlie and the explosion of professional nail techs, and they price their products like you’re opening a salon tomorrow. And honestly? I respect it. Business is business. It’s also exactly why I refused to see a nail tech in the first place. But the twist is… even with the products, I still experience chipped gel by the end of the week, random breaks, mystery cracks. I’m stuck between a hard place and a rock — or maybe a hard gel and a soft nail.

My anxiety doesn’t let me sleep when I see gel lifting. I’ll notice the tiniest air pocket and before I can blink, I’m peeling off the entire nail clean like a sticker. I know, I know, I know. Terrible for my nail beds. And no, I don’t want to talk about the anxiety part — that is between me, my thoughts, and maybe a future therapist I haven’t booked yet.

Every set I do, I tell myself, “This time. This time I did everything right. I won’t see lifting. I won’t see breakage. They look amazing.” And every time? A week and a half later I’m back in the ring with disappointment. I worry about how often I redo them just to chase the perfect manicure. It feels like a cycle: I love it, then I hate it. I’m obsessed, then I’m over it. I’m learning, and then suddenly I’m not. I get better, and then something breaks. Every success feels temporary. Every failure feels personal.

I am a perfectionist at heart. I want it right the first time. I want me to be right the first time. And when I’m not — when the gel lifts or the shape is slightly off — it genuinely deflates me. I want to quit, toss my tools in a drawer, and book a nail tech who would fix all of this with one appointment. But then I’d lose the one thing I’ve slowly been building: a skill, a ritual, a tiny corner of my life where I teach myself patience.

My goal one day is to become the kind of nail girlie who can do it all: designs, lengths, colors, shapes — the whole rainbow. Not because I need to, but because I finally trusted myself enough to learn it. And I know this is the goal that will take me the longest to reach. As much as I like to think of myself as someone who picks things up quickly, this process has humbled me. It’s shown me that I can’t always get it right the first time — that some skills demand time, patience, repetition, and a little bit of letting go. Nails have become the slow lesson I didn’t know I needed, the one that keeps reminding me that mastery comes after many, many imperfect attempts.

So I’m stuck in this weird limbo: do I go to a professional and finally get the results I’m chasing? Or do I keep learning, building, filing, breaking, lifting, and starting over — until I finally get it right? How unserious is serious? How committed do I have to be before this becomes more than a hobby and more like a quiet promise to myself?

Maybe doing your own nails isn’t just beauty maintenance. Maybe it’s an oddly sharp mirror — one that shows you your anxiety, your perfectionism, your growth, your frustration, your desire to be good at something just because you chose it. Maybe this isn’t about nails at all.

But still… I hope my next set lasts longer than nine days.